


Things We Lost to the Fire

by TheBookshelfDweller



Series: The Greenhouse Effect [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Eventual Johnlock, M/M, Not really an end-of-the-world fic, Part 1 of series, The Greenhouse Effect, Unorthodox texting tehniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'One day the world will end. The end will start with fire.<br/>[...]<br/>So, when familiarity of what they are, the delicate balance of similarities and differences, their symbiosis, turn into ashes in wake of a toxic conflagration, it happens like all other beginnings/endings/meetings/goodbyes/creation/destruction - completely by accident, or maybe, completely by design. Either way, these are the things they lose to the fire.'</p><p>A story of Sherlock, John, and their world of words unspoken, 'what if'-s unvoiced and decietful appearances running interference- a world that eventually, just like everything else, ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Different shades of bright

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Dinge, die wir an das Feuer verloren](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328638) by [weisserFlieder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weisserFlieder/pseuds/weisserFlieder)



> *rises from the dead* Hello everyone! I'm back (beat Sherlock to it! HA!), and I brought with me my first series :)
> 
> This is the first part, which contains my usual stuff - angst, with a side of angst and ofc Johnlock.
> 
> I can't promise everyday updates, but I'll try not to keep you waiting long between chapters, promise :)
> 
> Disclamer, as usual - disclaimed!
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> P.S. Many thanks to weisserFlieder for translating the series into German! :D

 

> * * *
> 
> _Man is the only creature that dares to light a fire and live with it._
> 
> _Henry Jackson Vandyke, Jr._

 

* * *

**_ The greenhouse effect _ ** _is a process by which thermal radiation from a planetary surface is absorbed by atmospheric greenhouse gases, and is re-radiated in all directions. Since part of this re-radiation is back towards the surface and the lower atmosphere, it results in an elevation of the average surface temperature above what it would be in the absence of the gases. When enhanced through human activity, it is the main cause of global warming, a steady and constant rise in Earth’s overall average temperature._

_This increase in temperature is predicted to have adverse consequences on Earth’s climate, leading to increasingly higher temperatures which may cause fires during summer, and melting of the ice caps, which will result in, among other things, an increase in the number of floods._

 

* * *

_10 th January, 2016_

Sherlock thinks he hears the pipes moan, and it sounds like ghosts and ghouls and creatures of myth Sherlock never believed in. It sounds as if there’s a pigeon stuck in the scratch-scarred wall – like a living thing hopelessly trapped between inanimate layers of plaster, wood, and bricks, trashing in its confinement.

The sound is unsettling, eliciting a surge of anguish as Sherlock presses his palms to the sides of his head, covering his ears and trying to drown it out.

A pigeon in a wall. Moaning pipes. Ghouls and ghosts, indeed, Sherlock thinks, as he listens to the beating of his heart.

 

* * *

_One day the world will end. The end will start with fire._

 

* * *

_Five  weeks earlier (3 rd December, 2015)_

 “Mycroft will spread the word of my supposed relapse...Usually he would try and intimidate every dealer in London into not selling me anything, but this time there is a new spin with which we are going. Apparently this time I have fallen so low that I am beyond salvation, so the only thing my meddling older brother can do, is make sure I get the best produce. He will select the suppliers, thus contributing to my cover. It must seem and feel as authentic as possible, which is precisely why we can’t be seen together, or better yet, not meet at all unless there is an explicit need to do so.”

Sherlock's laptop lays open on his desk, the keyboard littered with loose paper and scribble-covered post-its. The article on the screen is accompanied by a picture of a body, splayed on the dirty pavement of what appears to be a dingy back-alley, and the title reads “Bad drugs cause several deaths in London”. John lifts his eyes from the screen to look at his flatmate.

“Ok.” There is something hard in his eyes, but he does his best to keep his tone neutral. Of course, his attempts prove futile, as it is Sherlock Holmes he is speaking to. Sherlock takes note of the straining-to-sound-normal tone and casts a quick glance at John, taking in the subtle shift in posture and tensing of muscles. With an eye-roll and a sigh that would put martyrs to shame, he amends his earlier speech.

“I will acquire a burn-phone, so there is no worry of losing contact, really. I will need you here, as source of information, so there’s no reason why we couldn’t communicate on a regular basis, say one text per day, which, I am sure, would appease any turmoil this arrangement may cause you to experience.”

Sherlock finishes his soliloquy in such a way that John can very clearly hear the unsaid “ _happy now?”_ part of it, and the silent question is answered by John with a short nod. Memories of the scene on the roof of St. Bart’s, and all the years that followed, are still fresh in John’s mind, despite the fact that almost a year has gone by since Sherlock came back. They don’t bring it up much, not because neither of them dares but because they’ve put it to rest, mostly.  They’ve gone through all the motions – the initial tension, the lashing-out, the angry relief, the cooling-down, the heart-to-heart (the male English version of it, at least), and finally, the letting-go and starting anew. John remembers the first few weeks after Sherlock’s return and the way the man seemed to wreak havoc on John’s new life. If he had not been furious about it at the time, he would have found Sherlock’s blatant inability to understand that John’s life had moved on – that _John_ had moved on – endearingly typical. The way Sherlock waltzed back into John’s life, radiating self-confidence and firm belief that the world stood still during his absence, was what really made John cross at the time. He’d forgiven him, of course, but it took a while for both of them to acclimate to the new order of things. Sherlock, in his tornado-like fashion, blew in and rearranged everything, made space for himself, if somewhat forcefully, in John’s new life, which had since become filled with new things and new people, and, logically, this meant that in something had to give. In John’s case, the thing that gave was Mary.  

Sweet, kind, extraordinary Mary. John thinks that he most certainly could have ended up loving her. At the time, when the world got ransacked by much-wished resurrections, they were just beginning, Mary and he. It wasn’t love, not yet, but only soft tendrils of potential and soft prickles of true happiness, re-emerging after a long hibernation. She was never a substitute – no one could ever be _that_ – but she was something light and good, a promise of a new start, appeasement of ghosts and a partner with whom new memories could have been created. She was like candlelight, whereas Sherlock had always been more like an explosion, and where he was spectacular in his flamboyance and force, she had a quiet, soft strength of long-burning light and gentle warmth. For a moment, John indulged in the idea that he could have them both. It even seemed possible, for a while. Sherlock, still learning the new way of things, treated Mary in a way John had never seen him treat anyone – with reserved respect and somewhat awkward consideration. Mary seemed to sense the effort put into it by the newly-revived detective, and rose up to meet every clumsy peace-proffering of Sherlock’s. John sometimes found himself standing, jaw slack with something akin to awe, and observing this rare, previously considered impossible event, as if a supernova was being tamed by a flicker of fire at end of a candlewick. But in the end, it made for just a little bit too much fire in John’s life. John expected the usual “don’t make me compete with Sherlock” argument, but it never came. Mary never accused him of making her compete, nor did she ever ask John to choose. John never gave her reason to – she had never been a substitute, so she couldn’t have felt threatened by Sherlock. In the end, it wasn’t John’s choice at all, but Mary’s, and in the end the choice never included Sherlock, not in a way that would render the detective responsible for whatever was to become of John and Mary’s relationship.

“ _One day, you will break my heart, by no fault of yours, by getting yourself killed or injured, and I can do something about it now, before we’re in too deep.”_ she said, “ _I don’t want you to have to chose between me and your life with Sherlock, but that means I have to chose between myself and you”._ And because it wasn’t love then, not yet, she chose herself. It wasn’t selfish – it was smart. John thinks he might have ended up loving her, ended up wanting to keep her more than he had when they parted, and wonders how selfish that would have been of him.

Still, in those bitter nights when Sherlock is being extra impossible, John sometimes imagines what his life would have been like if he never came back, if it were Mary instead of Sherlock. He never wishes for it, no, never that. He spent too much time wishing Sherlock alive to ever be so stupid to wish anything else, but he can’t help comparing the pre-Sherlock and post-Sherlock look of his life – the order and the chaos, the steady-paced routine of the former and the fast-paces irregularity of the latter. Sometimes, when Sherlock loses his temper or says something exceptionally callous, John almost blames him for Mary...but not really, not ever, because he knows Sherlock didn’t really have a say in it. One cannot blame a tornado for tearing apart houses – it’s what tornados do – but they can blame themselves for not building stronger a house. Or they can choose not to cast blame at all, and build a new house.

Either way, when John’s steady happiness with Mary was put to rest, despite Sherlock’s blinding brightness, John could still feel the world grow just a bit darker as the soft candlelight got extinguished. And then it was just John and Sherlock, once again. Things never went back to precisely how they were three years ago – they couldn’t have – but for the last six months or so they’ve been having a pretty good run.

Sherlock seems to be slowly learning  few things about humility, and John feels his tolerance of Sherlock’s less favourable features (tolerance which suffered a great regression from its original form, in the first few weeks after Sherlock’s return) grow steadier and stronger with each passing day. So, when Sherlock remembers to put John at ease about his absence, knowing that despite the progress they’ve made lately, going AWOL is still a bit not good after everything that’s happened, John decides to ignore the irritated huff that accompanies Sherlock’s words, and nods his assent to Sherlock’s keeping-in-touch plan.

He watches as the detective slips into his coat and pockets a few items that, to John, seem completely random, but are no doubt connected in some grander scheme – a kitchen spoon, a Christmas cracker left in the flat by Mrs Hudson over a year ago, a microscope slide, a pocket-edition of Botany Basics, a travel manicure set, and...

“Sherlock, no.” John warns as Sherlock reaches for his emergency cigarette pack.

“But John...”

“No. You’re just _playing_ junkie, remember? You’re not actually going back to an addiction _of any kind_.”

For a few seconds their eyes lock in a battle of wills, but eventually Sherlock theatrically drops the cigarettes onto the seat of his black leather chair and stomps into the kitchen. John follows, a victorious smirk etched onto his face. A few more things find their home in the depths of the Belstaff – a sowing needle and a spool of John’s surgical thread, a set of plastic dominos and a pack of coloured metal paper clips – and then Sherlock’s tying his scarf, about to leave.

“Urm...ok, well...any last instructions?” John asks, unsure how to act. Saying goodbye seems both too plain and too ominous, but anything more just isn’t fitting. It’s just another case. They’ve done this a million times.

“Keep in touch with Lestrade, in case any new bodies turn up. I will try to stay up to date, but two sets of eyes are better than one, even if the other set isn’t mine.”

“Lovely, ta for that.”

“Yes, well...I’m off then. I’ll be in touch. When I get my hands on a sample, I’ll find a way to send it to you, so you can take it to Molly for analysis.”

“Ok.”

“It shouldn’t take long to solve this...one can’t even count on drug lords to be creative these days.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t really say my heart is bleeding because of that. Got everything you need?”

Sherlock smirks at John, a slightly manic light illuminating his eyes.

“A case of mysterious deaths in the underground junkie network cause by untraceable poisoned drugs, with victims cropping up randomly, in unconnected parts of London, with no obvious pattern? Yes, I’d say I have everything I need.”

It’s so very improper, morbid, and John knows it, but he still finds himself fondly shaking his head and hiding a smile as he watches Sherlock bounce down the stairs and out of the door. The door-slam sounds like a match being struck, a spark of that special case-related energy finally  and John can almost see the blaze trailing behind Sherlock as the imposing figure in a billowing coat ( _always so dramatic_ , John thinks) summons a cab out of thin air and disappears from John’s sight.

It’s early December and the days are growing short, snow twirling outside the windows. As shadows start to slither over the floor, John walks over to the fireplace and pokes idly at the items on the mantelpiece. He looks back at the screen of Sherlock’s laptop, eyes trained on the sallow, waxy face of the dead girl, her eyes open wide and glassy, her arms littered with needle marks, like little pores opened wider in the skin to allow life to slowly seep away and escape the abused shell of a body that contained it. He thinks of dirty underpasses, foul-smelling alleys and wind-whipped squat houses, and of Sherlock going undercover as a relapsed junkie. Sherlock is the master of disguise, John knows this, so he knows he doesn’t have to worry about Sherlock nailing his cover...but just as a woman ( _The_ Woman) once said, every disguise is really a self-portrait in the end. So, John doesn’t really worry Sherlock will have a problem fitting in – he’s afraid this particular self-portrait will be a bit too easy to paint.

Knowing that no use can come from such line of thinking, John averts his eyes from the picture, and busies himself at the hearth. His movements are precise and calm, practiced, and everything seems in perfect order – everything _is_  in perfect order – which is precisely why John tries his best to ignore the mental image that slowly morphs from the dead girl to a dead Sherlock, splayed in the same way over a dirty patch of asphalt, and lights the fire.


	2. The truest of truths that singe tongues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so today is a double-chapter day, mostly to make up for the very probable fact that there will be no update on New Year's day (still not sure about that).
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

****

* * *

_10 th December, 2015_

A week goes by, and each day John laughs at himself and his unwarranted paranoia. Despite John's half-doubt, Sherlock makes good on his promise to keep in touch. He doesn't call, but John gets texts on a more-or-less regular basis, at least once a day, as per their deal.

Lestrade phones to say that another body was discovered earlier in the morning, and John texts Sherlock with the info. The source of the drug is maddeningly elusive, seeing as victims crop up at random places, never creating a pattern which could be used to link them to a certain gang or drug lord. Sherlock’s plan is to try and get his hands on some of the stuff, and then work backwards to trace it to the source. In the meanwhile, Mycroft took it upon himself to ensure Sherlock was sold only the best drugs (‘ _yes, that’s_ precisely _what big brothers are for...’_ John ponders sarcastically) as part of his relapse-cover. That way Sherlock would have an easy time of maintaining the mirage that he was using again, and at the same time, Mycroft would get intell on a great part of the drug business.

Of course, leaving an ex-addict alone with drugs is in no way smart, and the Holmes boys are many things, but stupid has never been one of them. All the produce Sherlock buys is discretely sent to an unknown location, where Mycroft’s minions collect it and pass it onto the government units in charge of battling drug rings, with only a small pack being left to Sherlock as part of his cover. It all sounds perfectly planned, but John still worries. It isn’t only that he worries about Sherlock stumbling back into addiction– he trusts Sherlock and does his best not to doubt him -  but also the fact that people running the business are not the friendliest lot.

Lestrade’s men have trouble identifying the newest victim, so John takes it upon himself to try and work it out. Using his NSH clearance, he rummages through hospital databases, hoping to find a record somewhere. After 14 hours of charming nurses via phone, listing his credentials and using a few of Sherlock’s morally dubious tricks, John finally has a name, which he texts to Sherlock’s burn-phone. Few minutes later, a reply comes:

> _‘Brilliant! – SH’_

John smirks at the praise. Sherlock must be truly enraptured by the case, if he is spewing compliments so easily.

_‘Is that what I am?’_ John replies, not fishing for accolades, but bored, bothered by the silence that keeps hold over the flat, and his life, since Sherlock’s gone underground. He misses Sherlock’s litanies, his comments, his mere presence. It still a sore wound, Sherlock’s absence, and John feels ridiculous for being so bothered by it, knowing that this one is only temporary, but can’t help it. The tumult of his mind is temporarily delayed by the ping of his phone that announces the arrival of Sherlock’s answer to John’s joking question.

> _‘No. – SH’_

_So much for praise_ , John rolls his eyes, hardly surprised. He moves to dispose of his mobile, when the screen lights up again.

> _‘What you are is indispensible. – SH_ ’

John’s fingers falter over the phone. Every now and then, there is a moment like this, like a tear in the busy narrative of their lives, when things seems to slow down, and the world is suddenly crowded with words, half-formed and silent, never said out loud, not literally at least. They seem to be speaking in metaphors and analogies, figurative language becoming their mother-tongue in those little freeze-frames in time.

They are masters of language, in that way, the two of them. They keep their lies devoid of detail to cover up for the fact that they are untrue – ‘ _only lies have detail_ ’, Sherlock says, so they never include any in theirs.  In the same way, they never speak aloud the truest of truths, turning into functional mutes. The moderate truths, the mundane ones, they say willingly and readily, loudly or quietly, depending on the occasion, clearly and almost always without hesitation. Those are the truths for which words come easily.

But they never talk of the truest things, as if saying them would make them more real than either man cares to admit, and keeping them unsaid puts them up next to hazy semi-wakefulness and half-formed dreams, undefined and ethereal. If they must, they talk about them using non-matching words, like in a wrongly dubbed film.

John struggles to think of a response – is one even needed? Perhaps (‘ _most probably’_ John thinks) Sherlock didn’t even mean it the way John read it. Perhaps he just meant John is indispensible the way nicotine patches are. Perhaps John is thinking about it too much. Or perhaps he’s actually avoiding thinking about it – perhaps he’s simply ignoring the truest truth. They are masters of alternatives, double meanings and deceitful appearances. Men who speak in code, always, even to each other (most of all to each other).

Head full of ‘maybe’-s and ‘what if’-s, John leaves his phone on the coffee table and stalks into the kitchen. Tea, that’s what he needs – a nice cup of tea, rich and hot.

 

* * *

_11 th December, 2015_

Eighth day of Sherlock’s absence comes and almost goes – at half past eleven pm, John knows it’s still officially Wednesday – but John’s phone remains silent. He is seated in the lounge, staring unseeingly at the telly, as the colourful lights of BBC One’s late night programme flash over his face, like a psychedelic reflection of a light bouncing off a kaleidoscope. After waiting for another 20 minutes or so, John turns off the telly, takes his phone and climbs up to his room, decisively _not_ worried. He isn’t a mother hen, for the love of everything!

Sleep proves as elusive as a twitch of the Palace guards, so John trudges back downstairs. The electric kettle is broken (result of Sherlock doing who-knows-what with its electric circuits – a process which, in some magical way, contributed to the success of one of Sherlock’s experiments, so the kettle was graded as a worthy sacrifice), so he reaches for an ordinary one, and moves to light the stove. Of course, when one lives with Sherlock Holmes, one is never to take anything for granted – normally functioning gas stoves included.  However, it is late and John forgets that in 221B even seemingly innocuous kitchen appliances are potential death-traps, which is why he doesn’t approach the stove with the required amount of caution, simply turning it one with one hand and reaching to place the kettle on the burner with the other. The flame on the burner roars twice as high as it is supposed to, and John yelps, shaking his burnt hand wildly.

‘ _His Bunsen burner must have been broken – or just too far out of reach_ ’, John grumbles in his head, listing possible reasons why Sherlock would temper with the stove so to turn it into a potential fire hazard. His hand is marred with an angry pink blotch, but he knows it will probably just blister and heal, so he doesn’t fuss over it too much.

Giving up on the tea, John once again grabs his (irritatingly) silent mobile and tells himself he isn’t worried. It’s only one day. It doesn’t mean anything. John isn’t worried. Sherlock’s probably just too busy with the case, or is unable to text, for it might cause him to break cover. Perhaps he’s just in a place with no signal, or the battery has run out. Either way, John isn’t worried. Or so he tells himself.

It isn’t until later, when he accidentally slams his hand against the edge of his bed, that John realises that he’s been so preoccupied that he forgot the singed skin of his hand. The pain and burning return with an extra vicious edge, as if to punish him for ignoring them. But it is mind over matter, John decides, so he will do his best to ignore the annoying ache.

So, since mind over matter (and possibly, mind over mind) is a simple thing to achieve, John Watson isn’t worried and his hand most definitely doesn’t burn.

(Or so he tells himself.)

* * *

_13 th December, 2015_

After two more days of radio silence, John is just about ready to call Mycroft and demand a search party to be dispatched, when the doorbell chimes. He goes to answer it, knowing Mrs. Hudson is out. Yanking the door open, he finds no one on the other side. For a moment he is inclined to consider the whole thing a prank – that is, until a package on the doormat catches his eye.

Taking it inside, John opens the package and, with some rustling of the protective paper inside, pulls out its contents. As he takes in the object lying lightly in his hand, John barks out a short laugh of relief, knowing that there is only one person in the whole universe who would ever try to send him a message like _this_. Only a fraction sturdier than a fly’s wing, a microscope slide with a small translucent leaf encased between two thin glasses poses on John’s palm. There is a ‘W’ scribbled in black marker on the glass on one side of the leaf specimen, and number ‘2’ on the other. Right up in the left corner is another scribble, so small that one might mistake it for a speck of dirt, but just big enough to be legible. ‘ _He really does always sign his texts_ ’, John thinks, grinning at the tiny ‘ _SH_ ’ penned on the slide. He remembers Sherlock’s answer when John asked him why he always signed his texts (“ _How else would you know it’s from me?”_ ) and for once, John is thankful for Sherlock’s unusual habit.

But the initial wave of relief brought on by the knowledge that Sherlock is ok – or at least well enough to send John ridiculously cryptic messages – is soon replaced by the realisation that now John has to decipher it, and quickly. Awe, amusement, agitation and apprehension all swirl in side of him as he moves to take a better look at Sherlock’s message, and lifts the microscope slide towards the light.


	3. End-of-the-world dinner plans (companions in flames)

* * *

_12 th December, 2015_

It seems as if Sherlock is always in the extremes, even when it comes to his choice of meeting-venues. He either picks the underground tunnels or high rooftops. For this meeting, he chooses the latter, which just happens to be his preferred option. He climbs to the roof of a randomly selected building, blending in with the artistically-looking array of shapes that are turning to shadows in the silhouetted London skyline, as the day draws to a close. His figure joins the sombre outlines of buildings, old and new, intricately embellished Gothic edifices and clean-cut futuristic constructions. There is an unidentifiable quality of a very particular appeal, lingering in this place high above the line of glow being emitted by streetlights below. The oncoming night-time darkness is thicker here, richer, more concentrated, exempt from the dilution taking place on the ground, where orange and neon dispel any illusions that might be lurking in the dark.

‘ _Dramatic, John would call it. Theatrics.’_ Sherlock thinks. Maybe it is warranted to add “histrionic” to the description of his chosen venue, but it isn’t the main reason behind Sherlock’s choice. Clear air (as clear as it gets in London) that lacks the horrid smells of various bodily fluids and filth of all sorts, and the change in altitude make for a welcome change after the grittiness of back alleys and squat houses. For all his other idiosyncratic quirks, Sherlock has never been particularly bothered by getting his hands (and often various other body parts) dirty. The nature of his work doesn’t allow for squeamishness or any particular inclination towards constant cleanliness, but the nagging urge to escape, to find a place where a simple touch to a random surface doesn’t entail risk of contracting several infectious diseases, makes Sherlock seek refuge (however temporary it may be) from the constant presence of slime and grime, which permeates his days, as of recent. He rummages through his mind in order to identify what underlies the said urge. Spaces in which he had lived have never been very tidy, nor very clean, since there was never a need for them to be, their only purpose being to serve as a make-shift lab and storage for books and case files. If his body was just transport, then those spaces were just storage. He never paid any heed to keeping them clean beyond the extent needed to insure conditions for his experiments. There was never a habit of spring-cleaning to be found in a single bone of his body, nor has he ever felt the need to decorate, arrange, or embellish – functionality was always imperative.

And then came Baker Street. Then came often-used mugs and well-worn throw-pillows that required washing. Then came regular dusting and body parts in air-tight containers, as opposed to their previous freedom of simply perching in the open. Then came John, and with him, a space which became more than just storage – with John, it became a home. And now, Sherlock is left bothered by the filth and grime of regular junky hang-outs, stuck with a worrisome attachment to a place (well, perhaps not just a place) rendered currently unavailable to him.

 _‘Perhaps I have gotten used to a life with fewer sanitary hazards’_ , Sherlock thinks, _‘Rather impractical, given the current situation._ ’

London is a radiant web unfurling below him, where fairy lights, put up as messengers of the oncoming Yuletide, join the every-day street lamps in their shine. It seems idyllic. ‘ _Meretricious_.’

The door to the roof squeaks, and Sherlock can hear distinctive footfalls behind his back, which stays turned to the fast-approaching newcomer.

“Is this a dinner invitation, Mr. Holmes? And to think I almost gave up on the idea.”

The Woman makes her way over to the edge, and turns her back to the impressive display below them, leaning the small of her back against the low brick wall that encompasses the flat roof. Sherlock doesn’t avert his gaze to her, continuing to stare into mid-distance instead.

 “Hardly, Ms. Adler. A simple business meeting.”

They look imposing, the two of them, dark and somehow royal. In another life, perhaps they would have made quite a couple. In a life in which some other people were never met, in which some other souls haven’t wiggled their way into the small spaces between logic and stunning intellect. It wouldn’t be right, though, not even then, just as it isn’t now. They would have played a marvellous game, out-bested each other time and time again. Admiration, respect, taunting and entertainment – yes – but love? They would have been two elegant swordsmen, witty and eloquent. It would have been a competition, but not a love affair. Too much brain, too little heart. Or perhaps, too much brain to allow the heart to show. It would have been endlessly simpler, that life.

“Oh, I can’t say I am not a little disappointed.”

“How is India treating you? Or is it already someplace else now?”

“Thailand, in fact, and it’ been treating me rather well. Although, I must admit it is refreshing to feel the chill of London. I don’t believe I will ever get fully used to the humidity. But look at us, Mr. Holmes. We are talking about weather. How pedestrian of us, wouldn’t you agree? So tell me, what sort of business are you proposing?”

“Are you still in business of knowing what people like?” Sherlock asks. Irene smiles a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame.

“Always, Mr. Holmes. And in whose preferences are you interested, if I may ask?”

 “You may. Whether I choose to answer, is another matter completely.”

“Always so clever, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, it seems an incorrigible aspect of my character.”

“You don’t sound as if you would correct it, even if it were corrigible.”

“No, I would not.”

“So, what is this business you are talking about, then?”

Irene’s flirtatious smile takes on an intrigued edge as Sherlock pulls his gloved hand out of his coat pocket and extends it towards her, palm-up, offering some seemingly invisible treasure or means of contract.

“And what am I to make of this?” she asks as her delicate fingers flex to pick up the microscope glass off Sherlock’s palm. Encased between two thin slices of gleaming, heat-processed sand lies a small translucent leaf, with a ‘W’ scribbled on one side of it, and a ‘2’ on the other.

“It is an invitation.”

“For me?” Irene asks, her tone equal parts hopeful and dangerous.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, then why are you showing me?”

“Because, while the invitation is not for you, it is connected to the services I require of you.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock can tell he’s got her thoroughly intrigued, so he makes his move.

“Have you ever been to the Royal Botanic Gardens, Miss Adler?” he asks, with a sly grin, and, without waiting for an answer starts to explain. He talks at his fast, intercity-train speed, picking the pieces he considers are crucial, adding just a bit of those that aren’t to keep the Woman interested, and leaving out those he knows she would love to know. Irene’s face reveals little, a foxy smile plastered firmly upon her lips, but Sherlock ignores it, and all it seems to imply, as he waltzes words out of his mouth, painting maps and charts with only his voice for pen and paper. Fifteen minutes and one carefully constructed explanation later, Irene pushes off the wall and seductively moves into Sherlock’s personal space.

“Will you do it?” he asks, seemingly unruffled by her advances.

“Oh, I don’t think I am in a position to refuse...I do so hate to be in someone’s debt, and the whole Saudi Arabia situation has certainly placed me in yours”, she answers and then laughs a shrill laugh with her next words,  “A microscope sample invitation... how very _you_. I suppose you always did prefer things to be unusual, did you not, Mr. Holmes?”

“You seem so well-informed of other people’s preferences, I am surprised to see you so void of your own.” Sherlock says.

“Oh, I am in no way void of preferences, Mr. Holmes. Nor of desires. I simply chose not reveal them lightly.”

“You’ve revealed them once before, to me.”

“And look where that’s gotten me.”

Sherlock smirks. “Touché.”

“And speaking of preferences and desires – tell me, how is John?”

While Sherlock’s smirk falters at this, face hardening in an almost imperceptible way, with lines around his eyes and mouth rearranging slightly, Irene’s grin grows wider upon seeing the microburst of emotion in the Consulting Detective’s face.

“Oh my, it seems I’ve hit a nerve there”, she says in a voice far from apologetic, “It seems I am not the only one keeping my cards close to my chest, am I now? Don’t keep them too close, though, that’s my advice. Otherwise no one will be able to read them – not even those who should.”

There is something below Irene’s teasing and the ritual flirting, something strongly resembling sincerity, but Sherlock can’t see it clearly. He takes her in, eyes rummaging for evidence, while his mind debates whether or not to engage in this particular game. He doesn’t find much in terms of evidence, the Woman remaining a half-mystery as always (maybe he prefers her that way, respects her for it), so he decides against rising to take her bait.

“I believe our business here is concluded, Miss Adler”, he says, voice flat and unmoved. To anyone else it might seem as if the conversation that has just taken place left no impression on him, but Irene Adler isn’t just anyone, and Sherlock can feel, rather than see, her reading him, easily and effortlessly. Perhaps it is only fair – he does the same with everyone else. After a few beats, the Woman seems to find a confirmation of whatever her doubts may be, somewhere on Sherlock’s person, and she nods.

“Yes, I do believe it is.”

She doesn’t wait for an acknowledgement of her accession, turning around and starting towards the door that leads to the roof. Sherlock’s gaze lingers only for a second, before he turns around, as well, letting his eyes to go unfocused as he turns to his thoughts.

“You never did answer me, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock turns around and finds Irene stalling at the door, hand on handle, that teasing smile once again on her lips. “If it were the end of the world, would you have dinner with me?”

“Perhaps I would”, he answers.

The Woman regards him for a moment, a perfect picture of contemplation, with her head slightly bowed to the side, her smile changing from teasing to pensive, and lastly, to wistful.

“No. No, you would not”, she says with a tone both certain and final, and just a little bit sad. Sherlock’s face crinkles with confusion.

“You sound awfully certain of yourself. Why is that?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I thought we were being honest with each other” she pouts, “I know what people like. I know what _you_ like. I also know _whom_ you like. More than like. So, I know with whom you’d choose to spend the end of the world, and it would not be me.”

She flashes one more smile somewhere in his general direction before the door closes, and Sherlock is left standing against the luminous backdrop. He finds himself staling, stealing time as he postpones the imminent return underground (literal and metaphorical). One more breath of fresher air, piteously devoid of nicotine and tar, but intoxicating nonetheless, under given circumstances. He looks at London again, noting the faint outline of a smog-composed dome looming over the city, made visible by light pollution. He thinks about the end of the world.

 _‘It would not be me_.’ Of course not.

 Sherlock doesn’t care much for theories of the apocalypse. Solar storms, ancient prophecies – drivel. The human race is doing a well-enough job destroying the planet on their own, so there really is no need for sensationalist fables. If the world were to end, it would undoubtedly be a result of immense human stupidity and selfish short-sightedness. People, for the most part, treat their world the way they do their bodies – like a transient shell one may abuse with no regard for consequences (' _Oh, there's a pot calling a kettle black, John would say_ ' Sherlock reflects, noting the irony of his thoughts). If the world were to end, it would do so with slow decay chipping at it, some major natural disasters occurring every now and then. It would end in fire and water. Fires and floods. Burn out, and then drown. Maybe a bit sensationalist, after all.

Sherlock wonders how John would depict it. Would he still romanticise the events, the way he does their cases? Would he type it up in his blog? Wouldn't that be pointless? Who would he want to spend it with? Harry, perhaps not frowning over her drinking, for once? Old army mates, laughing, going out with forced joviality coursing through his veins? Mrs. Hudson, making sure she is alright, up until the end?

No. _‘It would not be me_.’ It wouldn’t be her. It wouldn’t be them, either. Sherlock wouldn’t have dinner, and John wouldn’t write his blog. Of course not. They’d be where they always are, where they should be. Right by each other’s sides.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't care much for end-of-the-world scenarios, as long as they include _the world ending with John_ , and not _the end of his world with John_.

He inhales once again, sharply and deeply, and then moves towards the door, coat billowing around his shins, and that ( _rather unsettling_ ) thought burrowing itself somewhere deep in his spine, half-way between his brain and his chest.

_Rather impractical, indeed._

No more time to waste. John is probably already coming up with a plan, worried over Sherlock’s lack of communication, and Sherlock’s got a package to send. He knows just whom to task with delivering it. Knowing his homeless network, all he has to do to find someone from it is look for the dancing light of a make-shift bonfire. In cold nights like this, they flock to it like moths to a flame.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got around to writing Irene :D It was lots of fun.
> 
> Anyway, new chapter tomorrow :) Thank you for reading!


	4. A (charred) spoonful of breath

****

* * *

> "Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself."  
>  Mark Twain 

* * *

_18 th December, 2015_

Three greenhouses look like little islets from another world, alien and enchanting see-through shelters washed up among the steel, the concrete, and gray opaqueness that surrounds them. The glass shows its age, with brown flecks and smudges like geriatric blood spots littering its surface, and fragments of all that has accumulated with time embedded in its layers. Fine dust that gathers in spaces between bricks, and grit that forms a peculiar seal in places where glass panels meet in a junction, speak of longevity and stories archived in the sediments that line various crevices.

John walks along the gravelly path until he reaches the middle greenhouse. Pushing the squeaking door open, he steps into the flora-filled house of glass. The interior holds an almost ethereal quality, with a surreal sort of air about it imprinting the feeling of a translucent green shroud, shielding and protective of its occupants. Moisture saturates the air, equating every breath with a swimmer’s stroke designed to keep one afloat among the quiet buzzing of life that covers every spare inch of the humid space.

Sherlock stands in the far corner, next to a specimen of _Dionaea muscipula_. For anyone else, the play of light and shadow that surrounds the detective might serve as an obstacle, hiding him from view at first glance, his dark figure partly blended with the umbra accumulated within the rhapsody of foliage – a semi-perfect mimicry. Call it luck, then, that John isn't just anyone. He sees Sherlock as soon as the enters the greenhouse, his senses relying on the fact that Sherlock still manages to be the most exotic creature in the room, despite being surrounded by plants one can only find in unreachable depths of rainforests.

“What happened to the burn phone?” he asks, pulling out the thin microscope slide, the exotic leaf still trapped in its showcase prison, and waving it slightly in order to attract Sherlock’s attention to it.

“I had to sell it.” Sherlock answers, taking half a step forward, just enough to come out of the shadows, “Well, when I say sell...trade would be a more precise term.”

“Trade it for what?”

“Information.”

“Was it a good trade, at least?”

“Yes, I dare say it was. You’d be surprised how much one can find out from a seventeen-year-old yearning for a hit at the price of a simple burn phone. People rarely pay attention to such figures, which makes them perfect for passing unobserved and gathering intell.”

Something sticky and dark seems to stir in the pit of John’s stomach as he listens to Sherlock’s words. If taken at face-value, they sounds cold and clinical, detached, but an instinct John can’t quite explain, like a Sherlock-tuned sixth sense, warns him that there might be more personal experience behind them than Sherlock is letting on. Like a pit of hot tar, the feeling seems to be dragging John deeper and deeper into a shadowy realm of a never-discussed past, and he tries to claw his way out by changing the subject.

“Are we even allowed to be in here?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then why are we here? How can you be sure no one will find us?”

“Has anyone stopped you when you tried to come in?”

“No. In fact, I haven’t seen a living soul all the time I was walking around. How did you manage to arrange _that_ , if I may know?”

“The Gardens were rather suddenly closed for the day. Quite out of the ordinary, really, but unpredictable things happen.” The smugness in Sherlock’s voice is the biggest tell John has ever witnessed in his flatmate.

“Ah, yes. Unpredictable things such as everyone in the staff getting a paid day off? On a Wednesday?” he asks. Sherlock just waves his hand nonchalantly.

“Let’s just say the director had to cater to my every whim as means of preventing the evidence of someone else catering to _his_ every whim from becoming public knowledge.”

John knows he shouldn’t smile, but that knowledge does little to impede the smirk that accompanies his next words.

“So, you blackmailed the director of the Royal Botanical Gardens into clearing the place for you for a day?”

“Don’t be ridiculous John. Of course _I_ didn’t blackmail him. I had Irene Adler do it.”

 _Does anyone really die anymore, or do they all just fake it?_ John wonders and then rids himself of the disbelief with a resigned/amused shake of head. “Of course you did”. He isn’t even surprised, really. “No use in asking how come a dead woman can blackmail someone, I suppose?”

“No, not if you are not interested in a sort-of rescue story with a mediocre plot, which is in no way relevant to any of the reasons which prompted me to come here today.”

“Ok, a story for another day, then. But I do want to hear it. If only so I can hear you call your own plan mediocre again.” John teases, enjoying taking a jab at Sherlock’s over-inflated ego. “How did you know I would figure it out, that I was to meet you here?”

“I knew you would be concerned about my lack of communication, and that you would recognize the slide as a message from me – after all, you’ve seen me take it when I was leaving Baker Street. I knew that you would then try to apply my own methods – funny, how people always resort to the old ‘ _what-would-he/she-do’_ technique when puzzled by someone’s message. Funny, but predictable, and thus extremely useful. I made an estimate that you would do the logical thing and look at the leaf through my microscope and, when that provided no useful data, ask Molly to run an analysis of it, analysis which would prove it to be a rare, exotic specimen, only found in the controlled environment of the Royal Botanic Gardens’ greenhouses. The ‘W’ obviously indicates the day – Wednesday – and number 2 the number of the greenhouse. I had the package delivered to Baker Street on Friday, thanks to my homeless network, giving you five days to work it all out.”

“That’s quite a lot of chance there, Sherlock.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s a simple combination of data-based assumptions with a high probability of becoming reality.”

“As I said – chance.”

“You know my methods, John, and I relied on that fact to be enough for my plan to work. Once again, I was right.”

John just stares at him, determined to get Sherlock to admit what John knows to be true – that they were lucky. After a ridiculous stare-down, Sherlock relents.

“Fine. I wasn’t entirely sure you’d figure it out in time, or at all, but that’s irrelevant now, seeing as you _have_ in fact understood my message.”

“Yes, luckily I did. Although it did not go precisely as you had predicted.”

“Oh?” Sherlock looks almost offended by John’s deviation from his imaginary stream of events.

“I did figure out the slide was from you – honestly, who else would send me something like that. Plus, you haven’t been in touch for three days at the time the package arrived, so it was safe to assume it was from you, given that you promised to report in at least once a day. But I didn’t really waste time on trying to identify the leaf myself. I went straight to Bart’s. It took Molly a few hours, she was swamped with work, but in the end she managed to identify the plant. So, you see, I _do_ know your methods, better than you think.”

John watches Sherlock, watches the odd glimmer in his eyes which borders heavily on admiration. It’s a good feeling, if somewhat disconcerting, to have that intense gaze trained on him again. He should have gotten used to it by now, he knows, but every time Sherlock looks at him in that way that is usually reserved for a new interesting fact, or a puzzle in need of solving, John can’t help but squirm a bit. His body is tense, and not only because of Sherlock’s unwavering stare. He feels as if he is holding a breath – as if he’s been holding it ever since Sherlock went undercover.

“So, why are we here then?” he asks, trying to dissolve the strange-but-familiar tension that has build up.

“I think I’ve located the source, and possibly found some samples, which I wanted to deliver personally. I’ll come to that in a minute, but there is something else that has to be dealt with first.”

“Oh...and what’s that?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock jams his hand into his pocket and, after pulling out that kitchen spoon John saw him take from their kitchen cupboard weeks ago, abruptly shrugs off his coat and starts unbuttoning the cuff of his left sleeve. Rolling it up, he proceeds to do the same with the right one, before extending both his arms towards John as if for inspection, the now-charred spoon proffered like ages-old family silver in Sherlock’s right palm. His arms are still the same pale expanses of skin, unmarred and intact, bar a few old scars – no puncture marks, no bruises or suspicious wounds.

“The spoon is charred, but only that. I didn’t use it for anything, just had to burn it a bit for it to make a convincing prop. I had to have it on me in case anyone got too curious. If you wish, you can take it and have Molly run an analysis – the results will confirm my words, I haven’t used it for cooking drugs. And, as you can see, my arms are untouched. There. Now you can stop worrying. I’m clean, John. This cover was just that – a _cover._ ”

John is torn between shame and relief, as he finally lets out the breath he’s been semi-unconsciously holding for weeks.

“I didn’t doubt you. I knew you wouldn’t start using again”, he says, looking Sherlock in the eye, trying to relay the honesty of his words, in an attempt to convince himself as much as Sherlock that he really never doubted the man in front of him. It isn’t untrue – he never doubted Sherlock, but the worry that he felt was always there, with a will of its own, nagging at the edges of his mind. He knows Sherlock could have easily used and hidden the traces – arms aren’t the only body parts available to a junkie – but something in this self-initiated display makes John sure Sherlock is speaking the truth. Just as Sherlock could read John’s worry in his stance, voice, and gaze, detected it even when John was only partly aware of its true nature, John can read Sherlock, and what he sees comes across as genuine. “I never doubted you”, he says again, for good measure.

“And yet, you worried. It was obvious from your stance when you came in, the general avoidance of the topic and the fact that your gaze kept returning to my forearms and other places where I might have injected the drugs.”

Sherlock doesn’t sound angry or disappointed. There is something fierce in his voice, slightly triumphant, as if he is saying ‘ _look, I’m all you ever thought of me’_.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Sherlock.”

“I know I don’t.” Sherlock’s eyes never falter from John’s. It isn’t just an off-hand remark either. The way Sherlock says ‘ _I know_ ’ reads like a deeply rooted conviction, like absolute knowledge of the fact that John lays no claim on Sherlock’s life, doesn’t present any sort of authority to which Sherlock would be obligated to report or justifying himself. And yet...and yet, Sherlock is offering proof, for the lack of better word, offering... _something_ , voluntarily, not out of obligation, but of his own free will. Not because he must, but because he _wants to_.

‘ _He isn’t trying to prove anything’_ , John realises, ‘ _he’s trying to put me at ease’_. It comes a somewhat of a surprise, although perhaps it shouldn’t – not after all they’ve been through – that Sherlock would put aside pride and righteous indignation, and save John from ever having to ask, offering reassurance where none is mandatory, all just to preserve John’s peace of mind.

“Thank you.” John says. He takes a step towards Sherlock and reaches for his up-rolled sleeves. He carefully unrolls one, then the other, working on the cuffs until they are tidily done around Sherlock’s bony writs. Sherlock stands unnaturally still, and John makes a clear effort of keeping his eyes on the job at hand. After he’s done, he reaches past Sherlock to grab the man’s coat, brushing ever so slightly against the detective. If John notices the question in Sherlock’s slightly darkened eyes as he hands him the heavy bundle of dark fabric, he doesn’t address it. And if Sherlock notices the faster beat of John’s pulse as he brushes his writs while taking the coat from the army doctor, he doesn’t say anything either.

Sherlock is still standing with his right hand lifted, still offering the abused piece of cutlery that lies there, for further inspection. Using his right hand to pass Sherlock his coat, John reaches with his left and pushes Sherlock’s fist closed, guiding his fingers around the dull metal of the spoon. They are masters of all things unsaid and since they never speak aloud the truest of truths, John doesn’t say ‘ _I believe you_ ’ and Sherlock doesn’t answer ‘ _I know_ ’. Instead, a spoon is rejected and trust re-affirmed with unwavering gazes and a short contact of hands.

 “So...” John clears his throat, taking a step back, “You said you think you’ve found the source?”

They don’t talk about it. They never do. All the unsaid things linger in the rainforest air of the greenhouse, adding to the stuffy, rich quality of it. The space smells of green and life and rich, dark earth and unsaid truths.

“Um..yes. Yes, I do believe I’ve found it. Here are the samples.” Sherlock produces a few plastic packets out of his pocket, “Give them to Molly. She’ll know what to do with them.”

“Right.”

“I’ll find a way to be in touch. Hopefully, I’ll wrap all this up pretty soon.”

“Good...that’s good.”

“Yes. The faster the better...Mycroft’s being a pain.”

“Isn’t that old news?”

They mirror each other’s grins, like naughty schoolboys mocking a hated teacher.

“Well, I better get going then. I might start to smell too fresh.” Sherlock says, and makes it for the door. It’s sudden and abrupt and John doesn’t have time to blink before Sherlock’s coattails are fluttering out of the greenhouse.

“I’ll text you if I need something!” Sherlock yells over his shoulder.

“How? I thought you sold your phone!” John responds.

“I’ll find a way!”

With that, Sherlock’s gone, taking with him something from the air, and for the first time in a while, John takes a really deep breath. Thank heavens he’s in a room full of oxygen-producing plants, because he feels as if he could swallow all the air in the room, gasping, finally able to breathe properly, if only for a night.

 

* * *

_20 th December, 2015_

Two days go by without any sort of contact. Just as John starts to makes his peace with the impending wait, walking home from surgery, a raggedy-looking young girl bumps into him in front of the flat as. She looks half-frozen and very much flustered, but John doesn’t get any further than a half-formed sorry before she’s gone. It isn’t until he hangs his jacket at the flat that he remembers to check his pockets, in case the girl lifted something off him. But, reaching into his pocket, John finds that, instead of being robbed, he is now in possession of one more item than he was a few minutes ago. Carefully, his fingers closing around a frail shape made of paper. As he pulls out his hand, he is met with Mrs Hudson’s orphaned Christmas cracker that had made its way into Sherlock’s colourful collection of last-minute necessities more than three weeks ago.

At first he is struck by the (illogical) sentimentality of the object, but then he realises this is _Sherlock_ he’s dealing with. The man sent him an exotic leaf on a microscope slide as an invitation, for cow’s sake.  A Christmas cracker is what John’s been waiting for, Sherlock’s _text_.

The paper breaks loudly, and instead of a toy or a joke, John is left with a simple paper card and an address, which he memorises. No date, not this time. No need, not this time – it’s a _Christmas_ cracker. _Five days_ , John thinks, setting up a mental countdown in his head, _five days to go._

Knowing that this message was meant only for him, John takes the broken pieces of the cracker and the card over to the fire place, and feeds them to the glowing embers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) I will try my best to update tomorrow, but I can't promise anything.


	5. Bonfire-words to keeps us warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess I did manage to get this one polished and ready for today :)
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_24 th – 25th December, 2015_

Sherlock Holmes never cared much for Christmas. Suicide counts rose during the holidays, and beneath the multicoloured sparkle of fairy lights and shop windows, there was only sludge and tedious, forced joviality required of society as a whole. Smiling at people you can’t stand, pretending to be interested in re-connecting with estranged family members who can’t seem to remember (or care about) anything even remotely important about your life, pretending for a few weeks that world is made of good will and general benevolence of human kind, with miracles sprouting about like Christmas-cracker toys. Furthermore, rarely has anyone had even half a brain to use the high suicide numbers as an ingenious cover for an even more ingenious crime...

The wretched holiday cannot be avoided, though. It is _everywhere_. This omnipresent bully among festivities dug its way into every window, onto every tree, and infiltrated every TV and radio station four weeks ago, and has since been perching all over London.

It is for this reason, among others, that Sherlock doesn’t particularly mind his current location. He is leaning against a tiled wall of an underpass, colour of the tiles so far from original that it is virtually impossible to determine their real hue. The underpass is blessedly free of decorations and other emblems of the _holiday spirit,_ and the only thing irritating the detective is the biting cold, which pinches at his face and gloveless hands as he smokes a ( _high tar!)_ cigarette. His chilled hand run on automatic, repeating the simple gesture of moving the tobacco-filled stick to-and-fro, alternating its position between Sherlock’s lips and his side, all until his numb fingers fail him and he drops the half-finished cigarette.

He curses, and starts fishing around his pocket for another one, finding a lonely roll ( _must get a new pack_ ). He is just about to try and light it, when the crescendo of echoing footsteps causes him to cease his search and look up. He blames the bloody cold and his distress over not getting to fully enjoy his vice of choice for the time it takes him to work out who is coming. By then, he can already see the shadow of the person rounding the corner, running in from of its owner like a bodyguard. The cigarette is still hanging loose and limp on Sherlock’s lip, unlit, when John comes to stand on the other end of the underpass, holding a bottle in one hand, while his other hand is stored in the safe warmth of his jacket pocket.

“I guess I’m not getting my Christmas wish this year, then”, he says, with mild exasperation, but no real reprimand. Sherlock’s eyebrows travel closer to each other as his forehead furrows in confusion, as it takes him a millisecond to realise what John is talking about. Why is he so _slow_? Must be the bloody cold.

“Hard to wrap ‘quit smoking’ in wrapping paper and bows. It’s not very present-shaped”

John walks toward Sherlock until they are standing a few steps apart, facing each other through the smoke of all they cannot discuss. The walls have proverbial ears, and these are the nooks and crannies of the world that Christmas spirit, in all its altruistic nature, rarely reaches, so they cannot count on discretion. What an odd couple do they make – a haggard homeless junky, and an everyday-man holding a bottle of eggnog, apparently attempting to use telepathy in a dingy underpass.

Sherlock thinks of past Christmases, of that feeling of being irked by having to maintain socially-acceptable behaviour for a whole evening (a promise first made to Mrs. Hudson, and then later, to John), mixed with affection (‘ _affection? Sentiment at Christmastime must be a by-product of all the sweets and moderately alcoholic treats Mrs. Hudson supplies us with’_ he ponders) that seemed to be elicited by the peculiar party gathered in front of the fire.He thinks of the way Christmas meant him being at his best behaviour, curbing his deductions and keeping them tame and inoffensive, and of John being contagiously high-spirited. _Dinner, drinks, violin, deductions, presents, violin, midnight, congratulations –_ their tradition. If this were just a Christmas, a regular Christmas, Sherlock would behave and John would laugh, and it would be so brilliantly ordinary, with a tree and a fire and eggnog and figgy pudding and “ _Merry Christmas, Sherlock”_ and _“Merry Christmas, John_ ”, and Sherlock wouldn’t care for Christmas, but he would like the warmth that would envelope them like that tacky wrapping paper Molly always uses.

_‘Yes, quite the holiday idyll_ ’, Sherlock thinks with a mental smirk, but the words fail to sound as sarcastic as he intends them. He thinks of how different this Christmas is.

His eyes never leave John’s – how could they, when they are his means of conversing in a situation in which his mouth must remain mute? He already knows what John wants to ask. _When are you coming back?_ Sherlock doesn’t want to tell John what they both already know – _I don’t know. Soon. Never. Or anytime in between._

It’s Christmas Eve, and they are two people standing in a neon-lit underpass. To a passer-by, it would look like one of the most depressing scenes to be seen at this time of year. To Sherlock, it looks like a charade, one to be kept up by the two performers who happen to be the only audience, too, but it’s not depressing. It’s almost playful, even if there is a wistful undertone to it. John holds the eggnog and all the words neither of them can say. Sherlock rubs his hands together, sifting through the words he cannot say until there are only the safe ones left. All of this – it’s just a play. He has his lines, and John has his. They are in it together, which, Sherlock knows, means that John will know what Sherlock’s lines mean.

“You didn’t need to bring the eggnog – I’ve told you, I don't care much for Christmas.”

John smiles at him.

“I know”

_‘Tidings of comfort and joy_ ’, Sherlock thinks. John’s smile is a carol.

Sherlock thinks of Christmases past, for which he never really cared, except for how there was something warm about the last few. He thinks how they are standing in the cold, in a stark contrast against the tiled wall full of graffiti. He realises that there is almost nothing different about this Christmas, not really. They may not be over at Baker Street, but just then, it doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest. Sherlock looks at John, all bundled-up, with a red nose and breath-clouds twirling around his mouth, and he thinks of a corny, over-used proverb that seems so appropriate at the given moment. Something about locations of homes and hearts.

It’s Christmas Eve, and they are two people standing in a neon-lit underpass. It’s Christmas Eve, and they are John and Sherlock, about to celebrate Christmas, and for some reason it’s warm, and there’s nothing different, not really. So, Sherlock does what he always does, because it’s just another Christmas (for which he doesn’t really care), and John is there, just like last year, and the year before, and there’s a protocol to be followed and lines to be delivered.

It’s Christmas Eve, so Sherlock will be at his best behaviour, curbing his deductions and keeping them tame and inoffensive, and John will be contagiously high-spirited, and laugh, and while there might not be a fire or a tree, at least there is eggnog. _Dinner, drinks, violin, deductions, presents, violin, midnight, congratulations – Christmas tradition._ They might have skipped some steps this year, with no dinner and no violin, but eggnog certainly counts as drinks and it is a tradition, so it is in the spirit of tradition that Sherlock speaks his first deduction of the evening, words soft in a way anyone else would miss but John.

“I didn’t think you did, either. Admittedly, you’ve always appreciated the tradition of it, the way you do that of most things – honouring traditions is part of your Queen-and-country mentality, really. And you like the optimism surrounding the holidays, the hope of a new start. That is why you try harder to get along with Harry this time of year, every year, despite knowing your efforts will show to be futile, every time. You seem to enjoy some of the rather frivolous aspects of the celebration, but still, it was always a mild case of the Christmas spirit I’ve detected in you. But, seeing as you are here, so very adamant to bring Christmas to me, it seems I have underestimated your love of it. It is a rather ardent love, I must admit. Tell me, John, why do you care for Christmas so?”

John follows the tradition, and when he speaks, he finds a way to give Sherlock a present, one that reminds Sherlock of a Christmas present he long cherished as a favourite. John’s smile stretches, not exactly wider, but shifts somehow, as if to say _“You’re asking questions to which you already know the answer. You know why I’m here”._ Sherlock can’t wrap not smoking and put it under a tree, but when John answers, he wishes he could, even though it wouldn’t be able to rival John’s gift.

“It’s not Christmas that I care for, Sherlock”, John says, with that wider-than-a-conversation smile.

When asked about his Christmas wishes at the age of seven, Sherlock only had two requests – a pirate ship that he could command, and the best dictionary his parents (because, of course he had worked out from where the presents came, by then) could find. He was to be the most eloquent pirate to ever sail the seas, so he asked for two things he needed to achieve that goal – a ship and words. He never got the ship, but he did get an edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, and that dictionary has long stayed unrivalled as far as Christmas presents go.

However, when John speaks, he gives Sherlock something better. He doesn’t simply give him a pile of words – he gives them the right words, chosen specifically for Sherlock. There is no colourful paper, no present tag, nor a card with John’s words dotted down in his familiar scribbles, and it is only eight words, as opposed to the OED’s six hundred thousand and more, but Sherlock prefers this present, by far.

With these gifted words, John breaks character...Sherlock can tell they’ve wondered off, away from the script designed to fool anyone who might be eavesdropping. These aren’t just lines being delivered any more. These are the unspoken truths being covertly admitted in this safe space which allows for both of them to claim their words as just a clever sham later. It’s another freeze-frame moment, but despite its name, this one radiates warmth, and the warmth is so pleasant Sherlock almost forgets why they are here in the first place. Remembering why he asked John here, Sherlock clears his throat, snapping John out of trance, too.

John moves to hand Sherlock the eggnog and Sherlock realises that the bottle is more than just a sentimental token – it’s a stage prop. Taking the bottle, he is careful to take hold of the paper John has tapped to the side of it – results of Molly’s analysis of the sample he gave John in the greenhouse. It’s what he had written on the card in the Christmas cracker – ‘ _results’_ and the address where they should be delivered.

Their hands brush during the exchange, both gloveless, and while temperature is well below zero, and there is half-frozen sludge littering the underpass floor, as the frigid air turns his breath into a moist cloud right at the threshold of his lips, Sherlock smiles at the infinite warmth he feels.

They hear the clock ring out twelve beats.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”

 Sherlock Holmes never really cared for Christmas. He doesn’t care for this one, either, but he likes the warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) There'll be no new chapter tomorrow, but I hope to get the next one ready for Thursday...that is if I manage to regain my ability of coherent thinking after tomorrow's S3 premiere :D


	6. Fragments of sky in ashen clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone :) As promised, chapter 6 is here.
> 
> I hope everyone had a good time, and to those who watched the premiere yesterday, I hope you enjoyed (no worries for those who are still waiting to see it, I won't spoil anything :) )
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_26 th December, 2015_

John wakes on Boxing Day without the usual post-Christmas blues. He seems to still be running on the high from the night before, induced by the creeping of a subtle change – tendrils, just tendrils, soft and enticing – that feels like something light and buzzing. It feels very, very similar to that thing John felt with Mary, those similar tendrils, only this _thing_ and these tendrils are not quite the same. The light, buzzing thing, John realises, is hope. A hope so similar to that he felt with Mary, only, that hope had been hope of future love, while this hope is something a bit more complicated.

He knows he could have ended up loving Mary, but this...there is no _could have_ with this. This hope doesn’t relate to a future possibility, at least not of the same sort. This hope is not borne out of a love yet to happen, but of one already existing, stubbornly, and sometimes against John’s better judgment, yet changing, morphing, or simply finally showing its true form - a sort of coming-of-age love. He can’t really find a name for it, cannot label or categorise it, but John realises that it doesn’t matter that he can’t. It’s fine, this nameless thing that transcends the limits of vocabulary, because Sherlock was never something one could put in a drawer – there isn’t a drawer big enough, John  muses – so why should anything connected to the man be an exception to that?

John’s reverie is broken by a voice calling from downstairs.

“John, love, you’ve got another package!”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson!”

Pulling on his slippers, John rushes down the stairs to retrieve what he is sure is Sherlock’s new message. A cardboard box awaits him at the foot of the staircase, plain and unthreatening. Ripping the duct-tape plastered over the top, John plunges his hand into the box, grappling at its contents. The moment his fingers touch the fabric, even before his brain has time to process the meaning of the charred piece of blue cloth that leaves black, sooty marks on his hands, John knows something is wrong. It’s instinct, primal and visceral, this knowledge that something has gone wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

“Mrs Hudson, when was this delivered?”

“Oh, I don’t know precisely, dear. It wasn’t here last night, so it must have been brought in sometime during the night, or maybe early morning, since I only found it while going to the shops. Why? What’s the matter?” she replies, her back turned to John as she fusses over her own mail. When John doesn’t respond, she turns around and looks up from the utility bills. Her gaze skims over John’s stricken face and down to the cloth-carcass clenched firmly in his hand.

“Is that Sherlock’s scarf? What in heaven’s name happened to it?”

John doesn’t answer, as he is already pulling out his mobile and dialling 2. As he phones Mycroft, and then Lestrade, John’s throat feels singed and charred, covered in soot.

 

* * *

Half an hour later, John is standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Lestrade at one end of the underpass Sherlock had invited him to two nights ago. Holding a paper cup filled with lukewarm tea that tastes as if someone’s been soaking old newspaper in it, Lestrade keeps his gaze trained on a flock of uniforms and scene techs milling about the sleet-bleached space.

“You spoke to Mycroft, then?” he asks.

“Not precisely”, John answers, “I called him the minute I got the scarf, but apparently he’s out of the country. I talked to his assistant, who ensured me Mycroft would be notified and steps would be taken, but who knows how long that’s going to take. She tried getting in touch with Sherlock, but none of Mycroft’s contacts seemed able to locate him.”

“So you called me.”

“Yes. This is the last place I saw him...I don’t know how far he could have gotten, I mean, the scarf was delivered sometime early this morning, or even during the night.”

“Speaking of the scarf – why do you think they sent it?”

“I don’t know...I’m not even sure it was them. Could have been Sherlock’s way of letting us know he’s in trouble. It’s possible they want me to know they have him, alive I hope, so they can strike a bargain. Sherlock’s important to a lot of people – Mycroft, the Met – and he knows a lot about many people. Plus, there’s been a lot of commotion linked to the drug rings lately, so perhaps they took him as leverage to get everyone to back off a bit. Either way, this where we’re most likely to find anything that could lead us to Sherlock.”

“John...” Lestrade finally averts his gaze to the shorter man, “I’ve got my whole team going through this place with fine-toothed combs, but the people who took Sherlock aren’t just ordinary street thugs... I mean, these guys have been running major drug networks for over a decade now. Even in a hurry, I doubt they would have been so reckless as to leave an obvious trace.”

“That’s not what I’m counting on, Greg.” John answers, shaking his head. His voice is tense, but there is a subtle undertone to it, a curious mixture of conviction, determination and hope that is just this side of desperation. “They might be experts, but you’re forgetting this is _Sherlock_ they took. I’m sure they made sure not to leave a trace, but I am just as sure Sherlock made sure _he did._ ”

“How? How could he have? I don’t think he had the time to plan anything, it seems as if they took him quite by surprise, otherwise he would have surely found a way to escape them.”

“He’s Sherlock – I’m sure he had a contingency plan right from the very start.”

“So, what are we looking for then?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

As they fall silent again, an officer in uniform approaches the DI and the army doctor. “There’s nothing in the underpass, sir, just litter. Should we extend the search perimeter?”

“Yes, do that. Do extra 300 yards in all directions. Oh, and...” Lestrade looks at John and then back to the officer, “we’re going with you.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes.”

“But, sir...”the officer stutters, casting sideway glances at John, “civilians are not allowed-“

“It’s alright, Johnson. Just extend the search perimeter.”

The young woman leaves, and Lestrade faces John once more. “You said you’d know Sherlock’s message when you saw it. I guess you better take a look then.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

“Yeah...let’s just hope Sherlock stayed true to being his impossible self.”

Scattered like bits of mercury from a broken thermometer, they search the area, trying stubbornly (on John’s part) and with some confusion (on everyone’s part) to find _something_ that would stand out among the rubbish and the eclectic mix of everyday bulk. It feels like playing a game of hot-and-cold in which there’s no one to yell ‘hot’ or ‘cold’, but everyone is still stumbling around, determined to find whatever it is that’s been hidden. Wondering off away from the police, John starts sifting through some of the rubble piles that accumulated in the skips outside the underpass. After thirty minutes of making his way through the pieces of broken wholes and building elements of things that never came to exist in the first place, he finally finds it – Sherlock’s shout of “Hot!”, the message he’s been looking for.

“Greg, over here!” he calls, urgency colouring his voice.

“What did you find?” Lestrade walks over to where John is bent over a rusted metal barrel. The sooty marks along the inside are clear indicators of the barrel’s use as a make-shift fireplace, and John can easily imagine half a dozen of poorly bundled-up bodies huddling each night around the orange glow, hoping to banish some of the unrelenting cold from their bones. On the bottom of the barrel, half-covered by ash and charred remnants of whatever was used for kindling the fire, lies a scrap of fabric, startlingly blue in the monochrome landscape of the put-out bonfire.

John’s finger itch as he stands towering over what looks like a broken piece of pre-dawn sky drowning in storm clouds, knowing that it is evidence and that while Sherlock may get away with touching the evidence, he doesn’t want to thank Greg for allowing him on scene by tempering with the forensics.

“Is that..?”

“Yes, a piece of Sherlock’s scarf. Must have been burnt off when then held the scarf above the fire.”

“Ok, let’s get it photographed and the get it out of there” Lestrade says, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. A camera flash later, he is lightly wiping the ash and charred bits off the fabric, taking it carefully, as if it is made of cobweb and not cashmere. As he lifts it out of its hiding place, Greg’s face takes on a confused quality.

“Wait a second...” he says, eyebrows coming closer to each other, his other hand coming up to toy with the newly-found evidence. John’s eyes dart between the DI’s hands and his face.

“What is it?” he asks. Everything is moving slow, to slow, and John _needs_ things to speed up. They don’t have the time for anything else than utter haste.

“It’s a pouch.” Lestrade answers. John grabs a pair of gloves off a near-by tech, pulling them on in that easy, practiced manner that screams “doctor”. He reaches for the bit of his friend’s infallible accessory, careful not to alter its current state.

The pouch is the size of John’s palm, obviously made out of the end of Sherlock’s scarf, if the tag still hanging onto the blue fabric is anything to go by. John inspects the cloth, and then turns back to Lestrade.

“He used my surgical thread. See, here, on top.” He moves to show Lestrade the top of the pouch, littered with tiny, tidy stitches all across the top line where two ends of fabric meet, as well as on the sides.

“Ok, let the techs catalogue it and then we can open it.” Lestrade replies, waving over one of his men. A few minutes after, the pouch has been photographed again and catalogued, so one of the techs brings over a small scalpel, handing it to Lestrade.

“Ok, Sherlock, let’s see what you left for us”, the DI says, ripping through the side stitches. He suspends the now-opened pouch above his palm, expectant of the contents.

John doesn’t know what he expects, but even if he did, it most certainly wouldn’t have been the six bundles of plastic, each wrapped with coloured pieces of wire.

“Dominoes? He left us dominoes?” Lestrade’s tone is a mix of disbelief and resignation John has long come to associate with Sherlock’s effect on the Detective Inspector.

“He’s sending a message. I just don’t know what it is. Not yet.” John responds. He takes one of the domino packs off Lestrade’s palm and fiddles with it.

“The fire must have been almost out by the time the scarf got in – the dominoes are untouched”, he says. He looks at the tiles, searching for anything that could give him a hint of what Sherlock wanted to say with them.

“Six packs, but each with a different number of tiles. He used three colours of wire – red, blue and green – to group them, and there are two packs marked by the same colour for each of the colours.” John thinks aloud.

“What are you trying to tell me?” he murmurs to the silent game leader, waiting for another shout of “Hot!” in this non-game. _‘You know_ _my methods, John, and I relied on that fact to be enough for my plan to work_ ’, Sherlock’s voice echoes in John’s mind. Knowing that time is paramount, and that he is Sherlock’s best chance, John feels as if his mind is full of ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Real life is being annoying and demanding my attention, which means a new update may not be possible before Sunday, but I promise to get a new chapter up before next week :)


	7. Dead men's Walks near the burning core

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said no new update today - guess what, I lied! Well, I didn't really, at least not on purpose. It just happened I managed to write a new chapter (who needs sleep, anyway? Sleep is for the weak).
> 
> Ok, so a few bits of data that might come in handy while reading:
> 
> Firstl of all, domino tiles are named according to the number of pips on each half (e.g. a tile with 4 pips on one half and 2 pips on the other is called a 4-2 or 2-4 tile). Also, tiles with the same number of pips on both halves (e.g. a 6-6 tile) are called doubles, while other tiles are called singles.
> 
> Second of all, SOCA is short for Serious Organised Crimes Agency.
> 
> Now that I've (hopefully) got you thoroughly confused - proceed and enjoy! :)

* * *

_3 rd January, 2016_

Acidic molasses – that's what the world feels like to Sherlock Holmes, as he tries to identify the surface below him. His cheek, bruised and scratched, is pressed to a cold, damp, uneven patch of ground. The lights blur, shining too bright in one moment, only to become just a weak glow in the next. His limbs feel like softened wax, sluggish and unobedient. All he can feel is warmth, but not the same one he felt a few nights ago _(‘when? When was that?’_ ), in that underpass, with John. This warmth is somehow unpleasant, constrictive and unnatural.

He can’t get enough air into his lungs, his lazy intercostal muscles and diaphragm refusing to move at a proper pace. Slow, slow, slow – everything is in slow-motion, even his heart, beating out its count like a breadcrumb sinking in oil, without haste, as if it has all the time in the world. He should mind, but he can muster the will to. Hazy and honey-like, the world seems to move around him, not flowing like liquid, but not still like a solid, either.  It slowly drifts around Sherlock, a viscous matter of relatively low importance, at least in comparison with the sensations swirling like smoke in Sherlock’s mind and body – he can’t really tell where precisely.

It is toxic alchemy, this state of giddy disorientation. First, Sherlock feels like giggling, euphoric despite the damp and the musty smell of age and demise that surround him. The manic laughter that threatens to overtake him, shake him until his bones rattle and his head slams against the cold hardness beneath him, gets stuck somewhere between his too-slow-to-move ribs and his too-dry mouth, but it doesn’t disappear. Rather, it is dispersed throughout his veins, like fire-ants crawling along his skin from the inside. He can feel them running like liquid tickles up and down his half-numb body, as if he is but a net of underground tunnels in which they nest. Sherlock’s face is just on verge of breaking into a demented grin when the fire-ants turn aggressive. Their tingling turns to biting, white-hot and horrid, as euphoria morphs into panic. It is primal and all-encompassing, this frenzy of dread, and Sherlock wants to scream, but he can’t, his never-to-be-heard scream getting misplaced along the way, somewhere between his indolent heart and torpid tongue. The yelp stays trapped beneath his skin, pressing him hard into the rough floor, pinning him down onto the ages-old stone.

As he oscillates between unwarranted euphoria and inexplicable panic, Sherlock is aware that he should open his eyes and look around, but the cloud in his head is both delightful and horrible, while the outside is just horrible, so he keeps his eyes closed.

After a while (a few minutes, an hour, a day, a lifetime – who would know? Time feels like plastic clock-hands thrown into a furnace, molten and disfigured, leaking down a messed-up clock face that wobbles like an image behind a wall of hot air) Sherlock feels his head slowly clearing. Thoughts start to regain a faster pace, and the air seems to contain more and more oxygen with each breath. Sherlock lifts his right hand and searches the floor for something, fingers palpating blindly until he feels the thin, pencil-shaped object, his limbs slowly remembering who’s supposed to be their master. There are soft thuds in his ears, and Sherlock wonders why his heart is so loud.

Just as the world threatens to regain its contours, there is a barely-noticed sensation of metal breaking skin at the crook of Sherlock’s left elbow, and then the cloud descends again, and the world is back to being a horribly delightful (or maybe delightfully horrible) and Sherlock is once again lost in the bubble of numbness.

When he next comes to his senses, really and truly, he will have lost days in this limbo, will have become a thing of chemically created dependency. When he next wakes, he will feel more than fire-ants – he will feel like he’s burning, a full-on conflagration.

 

* * *

_Two days earlier – 1 st January, 2016_

Placing the plastic evidence bag on the kitchen table, John wishes he could ignore the date displayed on his mobile. He hates the fact that he lost seven bloody days waiting for the evidence snafu to get sorted out by the Yarders. Seven days. Seven days, wasted on bureaucratic nonsense and senseless procedures. All because of a few incompetent public servants. For once, John feels inclined to share Sherlock’s sentiment about the New Scotland Yard.

Carefully, he arranges the domino packs on the table. He pairs them up according to the colour of wire wrapped around them. Red, green, blue. They seem somehow familiar. Something about the way the wires are wrapped around the domino tiles catches his eye, so he takes a closer look. Some of the packs, the smaller ones, containing only a few tiles are bound by a single wire, but the larger ones seem to be tied together by several pieces of wire linked together. ‘ _Why?’_ John wonders,  ‘’ _why not simply use a bigger piece?’_ As he unwinds one of the wires, he finally realises why the wires seem familiar.

Not wires, John realises, but paperclips. He recalls the pack of coloured metal paperclips, another trinket from Sherlock’s confusing departure-collection. He rushes to his desk, tearing a blue paperclip off one of the documents stacked mile-high on the haphazardly arranged boxes of case files Sherlock ‘borrowed’ from the Yard during their last visit. Returning to the kitchen table, John unwinds the little piece of metal wire and lies it down on the abused wooden surface. Grabbing the nearest domino pack, a single blank tile wrapped in a red piece of wire, he unwinds the wire and straightens it next to the unwound blue paper clip. Their lengths match almost perfectly, confirming John’s suspicion that the wires used to pair up the domino tiles are indeed paperclips from Sherlock’s pocket, given a new life, a new role. Their colours stand in stark contrast to the monochrome of white pips on the otherwise-black surface of the domino tiles.

John sets the blank tile aside, and next to it, the other pack marked with red. It is by far the thickest one, containing eight tiles – all 4-tiles (five of them from 4-1 to 4-4), two 3-tiles, a double and a single (the 3-3 and 3-2 ones), and the 5-5 tile. He repeats the process with other packs, grouping them by colour: green packs – one with three tiles, all 6-tiles (6-2, 6-5 and 6-6), and the other with two tiles, both 2-tiles (a single, 2-blank, and a double, 2-2) - go together on one side of the red heap, while the blue ones – both containing four tiles, the first one with two 6-tiles (6-4 and 6-3), one 5-tile (5-1) and one 4-tile (4-blank), while the other one holds three 6-tiles (6-blank, 6-1 and 6-2) and the 1-blank tile – end up next to them.

Finishing his work, John looks at the colourful procession, trying to glean anything of importance from its unusual form. John has only one New Year’s resolution – find Sherlock. He doesn’t know how – not yet, anyway – but he stares at the colour-matched pairs of black-and-white plastic tiles as if he can will them into turning verbal and admitting all their secrets.

 

* * *

_8 th January, 2016_

World grows sharper and sharper, until every line, every silhouette is like barbed wire scraping along Sherlock’s skin, shooting pain down his legs and up his back, pouring searing ache into the spaces between his organs. His light-tormented eyes seek refuge in the darkness behind the heavy curtains of his gummy, salt-encrusted eyelids, despite the fact that the only light source is a faint, depressing orangey glow from an old bulb in the hallway. The cold stone wall and floor are like a rug of pins, hurting at mere touch.

But the pain is almost a welcome respite from the intolerable, unbearable yearning that tears at Sherlock. He feels starved and parched, but not for food and water. He feels like he would trade air and light and warmth, and arm or his heartbeat – anything – for the yearning to stop. He cracks open an eye, and looks around, aware of the fact that he can only deduce the colour of light and the roughness of stone. He stares, willing his listless brain to deduce something, _anything_ , but only ending up with the world swaying in front of him.

Shivers start to wreck his body and he despises the weak husk that hosts his mind for being so easily manipulated. Sherlock tries focusing on a familiarity, forcing his brain to spark back to life, snap out the dull haze it’s been wallowing in for the last few days. Raking through the most vivid images that present themselves as options, he chooses the one he knows best, but keeps updating daily, new discoveries flowing in like a constant current. He chooses John, listing all the little and not-so-little facts about him, like a Recital of John. It’s a plaster on a whole-body burn, useless and but Sherlock refuses to give it up.

He needs to make it till the next surge of the gruesome mist, keep his brain from concentrating of the desolate war front of his body until it is once again submerged in dullness. His attempts are utterly futile, like trying to keep a candle burning on the windy shores of the Atlantic. The yearning persistently pushes against Sherlock’s mental barriers until the image of John is lost, put out by the gusts of craving, like a feeble flame.

 

* * *

_10 th January, 2016_

Nine days go by, but John is still at war with the dominoes. His eyes are slightly glassed-over, muddy from lack of proper sleep. He’s counted them, arranged them in various ways, always failing to find anything even resembling meaningful pattern, and always making sure he returned the tiles in the exact way they found them.  He is just about ready to growl with frustration, when there’s a ring at the door.

Casting a last venomous glance towards the offending tiles, John makes his way out of the kitchen and down the stairs. Opening the door, he is face with the tired-but-friendly face of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

“I’ve got news”, the DI says. John’s heart lurches with hope.

“New leads? Have you found him?” he asks. Lestrade steps inside and past John. As they climb the stairs and enter the flat, Lestrade updates John.

“No. But we did discover the source of the toxic drugs, which means we know who took him. Now we only have to find out _where_ to.”

“But if you know who it is, then surely you must know their usual hideouts.”

“The ring leader is John Small, head of the so-called _Aurora_ drug ring. We busted them in one of their hiding places, yesterday. Small wasn’t there, but we did catch a few middle-ranking members. Sherlock wasn’t there, either.”

John can feel his heart sink back into the tightness of his chest, pressed from all sides by anxiety and fear.

“However, we think we might have found another one.” Both men know they’re grasping at straws – drug rings as elaborate as this one could have dozens of hideouts all over London. But they need this, need the hope, so they silently agree to pretend the odds are on their side.

“Can you show it to me?”

“Sure, I’ll find the satellite shot of it.”

Taking John’s laptop, Lestrade finds an online map of London and then types in the address. John waits, eyes unfocused, trying to battle his fatigue. It doesn’t prove too hard a task, given that his body seems to be running on the frenzied energy fuelled by fear and trepidation. He thinks of Sherlock, wondering what the Consulting Detective is thinking. Does he think John has failed him? Is he constructing an escape plan? Is he being tortured? John stops himself there, aware that no use will come from gruesome images that threaten to overtake his mind.

Lestrade pulls up a satellite picture of London and zooms in to show John the hide-out spot they located. Click, click, click, he zooms in, and John’s tired brain counts the clicks, thankful for the familiar and undemanding pattern to follow. One, two, three... _’One, two, three – four five, six. Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six. Maps and satellite – one, two, three,...zero, six. Maps, satellite and pips! Of course!’_ John’s mind screams, gasps like a man resurrected.

John runs to the table, paper and pen in hand, where the dominoes still stand, grouped once again by colour, seeing as, after numerous various attempts at finding a pattern, John had returned to the only one he could find, the most obvious one – matching them by colour of the paperclip used. Oh, but he should have known! This is Sherlock he is trying to understand, and Sherlock never opts for the obvious. And yet, it couldn’t be simpler. _‘Hiding in plain sight_ ’ John almost smirks, almost laughs, drained but finally, _finally_ understanding.

Grabbing the single blank tile, marked with red, he writes down a zero on the paper. He chucks the tile away, reaching for the other red pack right away. His fingers tremble slightly, the cocktail of exhaustion and adrenalin taking its toll, as he counts the white pips on the tiles. ‘ _51’_ , he writes below the zero. By the time he unwinds the first green pack, Lestrade is next to him, leaning against the table.

“What? What is it?”

“They’re coordinates!” John says, voice rough and slightly too loud, but he doesn’t care. He could laugh, if only he weren’t too busy counting pips.

“Coordinates? What do you mean?”

“Look – six packs, three colours. Each colour represents either the degree, minute or second of latitude or longitude in the geographic coordinate system. If we divide them in two groups – one for latitude and one for longitude - then each group will have one red-, one green-, and one blue-marked pack. Degrees, minutes, seconds, north and west – coordinates. Sherlock left us coordinates of something. When we met a few days before Christmas, he said he was getting close to discovering where the killer drugs were coming from. I saw him again on Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t safe to say anything related, it could have blown his cover, but I think he might have just found what he was look for, by then.”

“Okay, so you think he left us coordinates of their main hide-out. But how can we possibly know which colour marks degrees, which minutes and so on? And how do you know how to match the correct coordinates together?”

“I don’t. Not yet, that is. As for the colours – I think the red ones are most probably for degrees, seeing as the blank tile was marked with red. Blank in domino stands for zero, and assuming that Sherlock is most probably still in London, the longitude must be that of the Greenwich meridian, so zero. Also, London lies approximately 51 degrees north of the equator, so that’s N 51˚, and the pips on the tiles from the other red-marked pack amount to 51. I mean, it’s all just guesswork, but that’s more than we had minutes ago, so...Now, for the-”

“How, in the name of cow, do you know all this?” Lestrade looks at John with the same gaze he usually keeps reserved for Sherlock – the ‘I-stopped-following-a-while-ago’ stare of bemusement. John lifts his head and meets Greg’s eyes, feeling a bit dizzy.

‘ _So that’s how it feels_ ’ he muses, ‘ _the thrill of deduction_ ’. He can feel the adrenalin in his blood, his heart thudding fast against the prison of his ribs. It is addictive, and were it not for the fact that Sherlock’s missing, John thinks he would rather enjoy the high.

“I liked geography in school”, he shrugs, “and it was always useful to know your geo-related facts in the army”, he replies, slowing down his words from the frenzied rush from just moments ago.

“Ok...just, slow down a bit, ok?  Are you sure this is right?”

“It has to be. It just has to – there’s nothing else that makes sense, trust me, I’ve checked. I’ve been doing nothing but checking the last nine days. Sherlock must have worked out where their main hide-out was and planned to send me a message like this, but got taken before he had the chance, so he left it behind instead.”

“Ok, but you still don’t know which ones are for minutes and which for seconds.”

“No, but if I know the degrees that leaves 24 different combinations of coordinates to be tried out, and if we type each into the GPS, we can rule out the less likely ones – those outside London, and so on.”

“Well, then...we better get on with it.”

John counts the pips on the green-marked tiles – 31 and 6 – as well as the blue-marked ones – 29 and 22. They work on it for the next few hours, listing the possible coordinates systematically, and putting them into the software. After the first run, they eliminate several the combinations that turn out to be those of fields and middles-of-nowhere. After a second run and agreeing to include only the locations in London, including the suburbs, they are left with seven possibilities.

“There is no way I can get all of them searched in time.”

“You probably won’t have to. We just have to check what’s on each of these addresses, see if anything jumps out.”

“Ok, you take the first four, I’ll do the rest.”

Ten minutes, just as they’ve eliminated coordinates of Renfrew Road, Boundary Close and Kennington Lane, seeing as only things found there are residential areas highly improbable to host a drug ring, Lestrade’s urgent voice beckons John over to where the DI is standing over his Smartphone.

“Look at this - 51°31′29″N 0°06′22″W. It’s an address on Sans Walk, near St. James Walk, in Clerkenwell.”

“So?”

“So, this one isn’t a block of family houses.”

“How do you know, does it show something on the map?”

“Well, it probably does, but that’s not how I know. There used to be a prison there, back in the 1800s, called the Clerkenwell House of Detention. It was built on remains of two previous prisons. It’s been gone for some time now, demolished at the turn of the 20th century. Afterwards, they built a school there, but it’s a block of flats now. What?” Lestrade asks, defensively stopping his explanation due to John’s raised eyebrows and questioning look, “You liked geography in school – I liked stories about old prisons. Sort of goes with my choice of profession, don’t you think?”

 “Okay, but if it’s a block of flats now, why is it any different from all the other addresses?” John asks.

“Well, it’s not on the site that’s special – it’s what’s underneath it. The only part of the original prison that survived till today, are the so-called Clerkenwell catacombs that still run underneath the surface complex. They used to be open for public until the owner could no longer pay the VAT on the place, so they’ve since been closed off, available only for filming and private events. However, I’ve heard recently that some rich bloke bought the whole complex, so now not even filming crews can go down there.”

“You think that’s where they’re keeping Sherlock? In the catacombs?”

“Listen, the bloke who bought the place, Bart Sholto, has long been suspected to be involved in the drugs business, suspected associate of Small and his drug ring.  SOCA’s been keeping an eye on him for some time now. When he bought the catacombs, everyone was sure the money had come from drugs, but nothing was ever proven, no witnesses, nothing, so they couldn’t pin it on him, but that’s one hell of a coincidence if you ask me. Chances are they are using the catacombs as headquarters. Think about it, it’s perfect – a net of underground tunnels, closed off to everyone, just waiting to be filled with illegal merchandise. Besides, it is the perfect place where you could hide someone – isolated, underground, unapproachable.”

John takes a look at the website Greg pulled up while talking, offering info about the Clerkenwell catacombs. As much as he wishes Greg to be right, he can’t help but shudder at the thought of Sherlock trapped in a place like that.

“Ok, yeah...ok, you’re right. This is our best shot. Let’s go.” He is just about to grab his jacket, when Lestrade puts an arm out across John’s chest, effectively stopping him in his tracks. The look on the DI’s face doesn’t bode well and John knows he isn’t going to like the man’s next words.

“Listen to me. Chances are, even if we got it right and that’s where they’re keeping Sherlock, that they moved him. We found another hide-out of theirs, one which we didn’t have time to check out yet. You can go there with the smaller unit. It’s smaller and easier to cover with less man force, which means someone will always be able to stay at your side. You are still a civilian, and I cannot afford to have you getting yourself shot because the place is too big for me to keep an eye on you all the time. If Sherlock’s in either of these places, we will find him, ok? And this isn’t open for discussion, I’m telling you in advance, so you can either try to argue with me on this, or you can not waste any more time and get in the car with Johnson and others. I will take a larger unit to the catacombs, search the place apart.”

“Greg – “

“No, John. If he’s in any of these places _we will find him_. But you won’t be doing Sherlock any favours if you decide to make my job difficult.”

Lestrade can see the tumult behind John’s eyes, the raging argument the shorter man is having with himself. After a minute or so, John’s shoulders sag in a recognisable way that signals resignation, and Lestrade knows he won this round.

“Ok, then.” John says, sounding tired and ancient.

“Great. I’ll call central and have them send the teams. Listen, I’ll call you as soon as I find him, if he happens to be there, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Thanks, mate.”

They storm down the stairs and out the door, into the clear, cold London night. The sky is dark, littered with cold-glowing stars, like moth-made holes in dark fabric letting through some cruel, uncaring shine. Dancing lights of police car sirens colour their faces in blue flashes, turning them into a canvas on which light and shadow dance around each other like two parts of the same being. Lestrade walks towards his car, while John joins the officer from the underpass, Johnson, in the other one.

As the car he’s in rushes along sleepy streets, John stares unseeingly at the blur of streetlamp lights on the other side of his window glass. His mind is far away, in a place much darker than the well-lit streets of the capital, in a web of underground tunnels, forming images of a certain missing Consulting Detective being kept in stone-covered, damp depths of Death’s private chambers, ones to which John is not allowed access.

Burning rubber against asphalt, the police care rushes towards the other venue Lestrade and his men found. John glances up to the sky, wishing it would shine a spotlight, show them where to go. He wants something more than the useless sparkling of stars and the indifferent, pale face of the Moon. He wants to empty all his fear and anguish into the vast, dark expanse, fill it out with flames and blazing traces of anger. He wants to spew fire into the sky, wants for it to ignite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What just happened there? You know my methods, so I'll leave you to your deductions. :P
> 
> Fun fact: Clerkenwell House of Detention and the catacombs are a real place, and all the data used in this chapter is also real, apart from the part where a drug lord supposedly bought the complex (obviously). Apart from that tiny detail, all the info is genuine and can be foudn online.
> 
> There you go! I'm working on the next chapter, so see you soon!
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	8. A free man in chains, on the pyre of thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write a nice author's note, but I've been rendered incapable of coherent speech by The Sign of Three, so just go on, read and enjoy. Double chapter update, to make up for the wait, so here's the last two chapters of part 1 :) I haven't slept because I got inspired to write these two chapters, so any and all mistakes are due to the fact that it's 6 am here. 
> 
> Onwards!

* * *

 

> "Love is like a friendship caught on fire."
> 
> Bruce Lee

 

* * *

There are no steps echoing down poorly-lit halls, no clicking of heels along the cobblestone floor. The place radiates an aura of emptiness, bowels of a ghost structure no longer in existence snaking their way under the surface, abandoned and deserted save for the single prisoner. The drip-drip-drip of water somewhere in the deeper cells sings its eerie aria, a spooky metronome of doom unrelentingly precise. No door is locked and no shackles are fastened around weakened wrists, bar one pair, but even those manacles could easily be removed. Still, they are not, remaining firmly in place. The single prisoner is sitting with his back to the wall, one hand chained to a pipe with a pair of standard-issue handcuffs. A set of lock-picks lies, like a devil’s offering, just out of reach. To a casual observer this would seem like the cruellest of jokes, a thirsty man being held above a fountain, a hungry man being forced to throw food into the mud. A casual observer wouldn’t know that the lock picks have once been perfectly within reach, that the door is unlocked and that there isn’t a soul to stop Sherlock Holmes from leaving. Not a soul, but for his own.

Sherlock Holmes is a prisoner by his own choice.

Sherlock can feel the effects of the drug wear off, slowly, the way life seeps out of a wilting plant. He still feels slow and uncoordinated, but at least his thoughts no longer sound like a jumbled-up story being told by a charming drunk. He can smell the damp and the rusting metal, taste the blood pooling in cracks of his chapped lips, damp and rusty. It’s almost synesthetic, this sensation of smelling and tasting red rust all around him. Shadows move along walls and he thinks he hears wailing of a child calling desperately from levels below. It’s a wretched sound. A more superstitious man would suspect ghost and ghouls and creatures of myth Sherlock never believe in, but Sherlock banishes such thoughts, blaming the chemical imbalance that pounds at his organism like fireworks (or gas-shells, more precisely) for the illusions of life in this place of demise.

The set of lock picks lies just out of reach, exactly where Sherlock kicked it hours ago. Out of reach, safe from temptation. A kit containing three full syringes in a plastic box lies in the opposite corner of the room. It is the flame to Sherlock’s moth, bright and brilliant, destructive and lethal, simultaneously desired and despised. A magic box full of oblivion haunts him like the inexistent ghosts that supposedly lurk in the shadows of the catacombs, but another voice breaks through every now and then, rising to meet every sultry, seductive whisper of the box, battling it, shouting over it. At first, Sherlock thinks he hears John talking to him, close and low in his ear, quietly and firmly and the loudly and ardently (desperately), instructing and begging, commanding and pleading, but after a while he realises it isn’t John talking. Oh, John’s voice is definitely in his head, but the one speaking the warnings and pleas, the threats and arguments is Sherlock’s own. It is a cacophony – the calling of the box and the two voices dancing in tandem, like background noise of a documentary and an educational voice-over.

 John’s voice bounces around the inside of Sherlock’s skull, spills and twirls, simultaneously solid, liquid and gas, ever-changing, but constant, just like John himself, but Sherlock can’t make out what it is saying because it isn’t saying anything at all, sometimes it is just a sound – an annoyed huff, a surprised yelp, an exasperated sigh...a giggle, a chuckle, a laugh. Sherlock doesn’t hear John preaching or scolding. There isn’t a John-shaped, John-voiced Jiminy Cricket inside Sherlock’s mind. Instead, he hears John laugh, the sounds as free and as warm as sunlight. It is a ridiculous, cheesy comparison, Sherlock knows, but true nonetheless. John’s laughter is sunlight caught in lungs, rays of light across the spectrum expelled between lips, into the world. Sherlock’s world. Sherlock Holmes hears the part of John that is always so freely given, true and genuine to a fault – he hears everything he could lose. Not all warnings are strict speeches – some are laughter of a person too important to label, reminders of all that’s at stake.

Speaking over the sound of John’s laughter is Sherlock’s own voice, rambling a conflicted litany of orders and negotiations, of appeals to reason and warnings to every inch of his rational being. Bribes and blackmail switch places as Sherlock uses his immodest eloquence on himself in order to convince his yearning body against following instincts. It’s a simple choice. Drugs or John. Except it isn’t simple, not at all. Both options are John-less, at least in the short-to-mid-long run, the only difference being that one is permanently so, while the other bears a possibility of a mid-distant future which would include John. ‘ _The_ true _frailty of genius_ ’ Sherlock thinks ‘ _is that it leaves so little space for doubt of one’s own predictions. So little space for hope’._

The lock-picks lie just out of reach and it’s both an inch and a mile, at the same time.

Sherlock runs through all the possibilities, trying to list them despite the whispers and the laughter and the preaching. He can free himself and take the drugs or he can stay handcuffed and wait to be found. He begs all divinities he doesn’t even believe in that Mycroft’s men find him before John does. Because John _will_ find him, of that Sherlock is sure. It is a certainty he dreads. He is stranded here, stranded between the knowledge of his own weakness of will and waiting to be found. John, loyal, fierce John. If he finds him first, Sherlock knows catastrophe will be imminent, both because of John’s nature and because of Sherlock’s. If John finds him, he will try to help. He will be strong and loyal and have faith in Sherlock. He will do everything he is supposed to do, because he’s John. He will do all the things he shouldn’t, and Sherlock – Sherlock will tear him apart. Tear everything apart.

There is a third option, less likely than the other two, but no less devastating. He can free himself and somehow resist temptation, for a while. Go back to Baker Street, back to John, only to fail eventually.

Sherlock Holmes is a prisoner, but not all prisons are metal and stone.

Sherlock pits his wrist harder against the cold metal, trying to subdue the need to somehow get his hands on the lock-picks and, subsequently, on the box of liquid vice placed barely three meters from him. The cuffs are cold against his too-warm skin and Sherlock focuses on the contrast, on the way coldness and heat mix to create the perfect temperature. Contrasting, but also complementarity, an alchemic wedding of the Sun and the Moon, of gold and silver. Too-warm skin and cold metal. Sun and Moon. John and Sherlock, contrast stemming from a shared essence, and complementarity that can only be found in two parts of a whole.

Sherlock is fighting, fighting not only for his life, but for his world. He is fighting against his own blood and foreign chemicals that pollute it. He is fighting biology and chemistry, fighting rules of cause-and-effect. Sherlock is fighting his worst enemy yet – himself.

The cell is damp and smells of rusting blood. The door is unlocked and the halls are empty. It isn’t a prison. It is salvation, a lesser of two evils. Sherlock thinks about the kit in the corner (oh, how he can’t stop thinking about it), thinks about what this choice would me. ‘ _Oh, the irony’_ he muses ‘ _I’m a free man in chains who will fall prisoner if he frees himself of them’_. In the midst of the whole ordeal Sherlock can’t help but admire how clever his captors are. They know, just like he knows, that there are worse prisons than those with bars and dungeons, prisons one cannot escape. Prisons built out of choices and consequences left in their wake. They know this, and they know that that _Sherlock knows_.

Sherlock Holmes is a prisoner by his own choice, in order not to become a prisoner _of_ his own choice.

 

* * *

There are steps echoing down poorly-lit halls, clicking of heels along the cobblestone floor. The old basement smells of damp and rusty metal. The police move like a well-trained dance ensemble, coordinated to a twitch of finger, hyperaware of each other’s movements. Behind them, John hurried to follow, stealthy feet that never quite managed to replicate Sherlock’s effortless elegance still skilful enough not to make a sound. The drip-drip-drip of water somewhere in the distance serves as backdrop for the silent countdown. One-two-three and the door is being kicked down, shouts of warning permeating the air with acknowledgements of rank and right.

 John runs into the neon-lit space of the suspected hide-out, the bullet-proof vest slightly restricting his movements, like an ill-tailored tortoise shell. His steps send loud thuds echoing throughout the building, his breathing fast and shallow, each breath drawing in just enough air to keep him going. Breathing isn’t crucial now –every function is reduced to the most efficient level – there is only one thing that matters. There are only two men, playing cards in the middle of the room, seated around a shabby plastic table. Before John can get to them, the Yarders are already pointing guns and shouting warnings. Handcuffs are applied and accusations cast, but John couldn’t care less. Pacing around, his military persona falling into place like a second skin, John scavenges the space for the one thing he desperately needs to find. By the time he does a full sweep of the place, the police return and start searching.

They search the place twice, but John knows it the first time around, knows like he knows the pain of getting shot, a feeling equal to the phantom pain of a lost limb.

John knows – Sherlock isn’t there.

 

* * *

There are steps echoing down poorly-lit halls, clicking of heels along the cobblestone floor. Sherlock flinches, listening, trying to deduce the owner of the footfalls. It is hard, with all the incessant noise filling his brain, but panic works its way through the ruckus until Sherlock identifies the person running down the underground maze. _Lestarde._

Sherlock’s heart sinks. _‘If Lestrade is here, John isn’t far behind_ ’.

The steps draw closer, echoes bouncing off the wall just outside Sherlock’s cell. One-two-three pairs. Three pairs of feet rush along the narrow corridor and then Sherlock can see the dust-covered tips of Lestrade’s shoes making their way into the cell. Behind him, Sherlock – to his immense relief – doesn’t spot John’s familiar brown leather shoes.

“Sherlock!”

The DI moves swiftly to release the consulting detective from his bonds. The cells is dark, the only light being the faint glow from the hall. Lestrade, with his back turned to the corner with the drug kit, lifts Sherlock off the ground.

Sherlock gives thanks for whatever reason it is that he doesn’t stumble and fall the moment he is up on his feet. The high is gone by now, his body left abused and weary, but relatively functional. It is the short, _very short_ time window between the high and the cravings he sometimes experiences. Lestrade turns back to his men.

“Ok, you lot. I’m going to take him up to the car and home. You stay here until forensics is here to process the crime scene and draw up a preliminary. We’ll do the full report tomorrow when Sherlock comes in for questioning.”

The two of his team nod their heads and turn to stand on each side of the door, like sentinel-wardens of an invisible convict. Lestrade beckons Sherlock down the hall, keeping him ahead, as if he is worried Sherlock might lose his way.

“Are you alright?” Lestrade asks.

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m quite capable of assessing my own state of being and expressing it in simple-enough terms, thank you.” Sherlock hopes his usual brusque answers will help maintain the image of normalcy. All of his symptoms – the slight shivering, the pallor of his skin, the general fatigue oozing out of him like venom – could easily by attributed to the poor conditions in which he’s been kept for the last couple of weeks. Sherlock knows ( _a 96% probability_ ) that Lestrade hasn’t seen the drug kit in the cell, giving Sherlock the advantage of painting his own portrait.

“Possibly a mild case of hypothermia, nothing too serious and nothing in need of medical attention. Anything else you might want to know? Except that you really should switch back to your old fish-and-chips vendor – this one is doing no favours to your waistline and skin. A pound in two weeks – not an indicator of quality nutrition.”

Lestrade seems satisfied with the explanation and amused by the deduction, as if getting Sherlock to admit to any sort of ailment is achievement enough and hearing his be his usual self is confirmation enough of his well-being.

“Alright then, if you say so. I will leave the medical stuff to John. Speaking of which, I ought to call him, let him know you’re fine.”

Before Sherlock can protest or get a word edgewise, Lestrade’s voice booms louder as he speaks into the mobile.

“John? We’ve got him. Yeah, he’s fine. A little worse for wear from the cold, but nothing serious. He’s already deduced that I’ve switched where I get my fish and chips because, apparently, I’ve gained a pound and my complexion is worse than it used to be. See? Same old Sherlock. We’re on our way.”

By the time Lestrade hangs up, they make it out onto the street. Lestrade steers Sherlock towards the silver BMW. The seat sticks to Sherlock’s clammy skin as he nestles in it.

“Take me to the Diogenes Club” he demands. “Please” he adds, not to manipulate, but to show respect.

“The Diogenes Club?” Greg shoots him a confused look. “What are you on about? I’m taking you to Baker Street.”

“No.”

“Sherlock! What’s the matter with you? John’s out of his mind, and I’ve told him I’m bringing you over. What’s going on?”

Knowing that his only choice, if he wishes to keep Lestrade in the dark about everything, is to relent, Sherlock hunches further into the seat, angling his body towards the window and mumbles,

“Fine. Baker Street then.”

The blue lights of police cars shine like a cool-coloured pyre.


	9. The end will start with fire

* * *

 

> "A spark neglected makes a mighty fire."
> 
> Robert Herrick

 

* * *

They make it to 221B before John. Lestrade offers to wait with Sherlock, but is soon persuaded against it. Mrs. Hudson comes up for a short while, carrying a tray with tea. She casts a worried at Sherlock, gently cupping his face before retreating back to her own flat.

Trying to calm the slight tremor of his hands, Sherlock moves as quickly as his treacherous body allows him, and reaches into the kitchen cupboard. With clumsy fingers, he finds a little white tablet. Just as he crushes it on the counter and wipes the powder into one of the tea cups, he hears the front door open and close. Quickly pouring tea into both cups, careful to keep track of which one contains the pill, he moves towards the den, carrying the tray

“Sherl-!”

Sherlock is half-way to the sofa when John bursts into the room, Sherlock’s name dying on his tongue as he lays eyes on the tall form in front of him. He takes in the pale skin and the purple bruises fatigue has painted with tiny fists under Sherlock’s eyes. John looks at the haggard, but so beautifully alive man in front of him, and finally, _finally_ , takes in a proper breath.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock puts the down the tray. John takes of his jacket, hurriedly, pulling at the cuffs of his shirt in the process, riding them high up his forearms until his sleeves are a raggedy mess around his elbows.

“Are you alright?” he asks, taking a step closer. He grabs Sherlock’s hands, turning them over in his own, looking for tales of woe written over the skin there. Sherlock stands still, ever so still, until John’s eyes stop their frenzied marathon all over the planes of Sherlock’s body, in search of injury, and make their way to Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock? Are you ok?”

“I am fine.” Sherlock replies. There is less than a foot of space between them now, a foot of warm air the only thing dividing them. Sherlock takes a step back, warmth dissipating like a faultily woven spider’s web. The confusion and hurt on John’s face because of Sherlock’s retreat are soon replaced by that of gentle wonder as Sherlock reaches and tugs John’s sleeves back into place, one by one, slowly sliding the fabric down to its rightful position.

John stands very still, hands slightly raised as Sherlock eases the cuffs of his shirt back into place, dusting off imaginary lint before releasing John’s sleeves from his grip. The fire in the hearth casts a too-warm glow across the room. It’s another freeze-frame in their narrative, only this one is major – a tipping point. A log cracks, releasing sparks into the chimney – bright little things, so splendid and so short-lived – and there is another tug of sleeves, only this time it isn’t half as tidy and neat as the previous one.

Two hands grip at cloth, John’s left grabbing Sherlock’s right sleeve and Sherlock’s left doing the same with John’s, as if touching skin would be a blasphemy. This reverence doesn’t last long, seeing as skin finds skin soon enough, lips to lips, but that is the only offending break of skin-tocloth barrier. Hands roam over clothed planes, with only lips and breath allowed to be the point of ignition. It's like inhaling steam, hot air burning his lungs, but John can’t help it, doesn’t want to stop it. The kiss tastes red and rusty, like blood and decay. They’re breathing ash into each other’s lungs, as if they’re being cremated from within, by some unstoppable furnace.

If there is hunger that doesn’t quite read as just lust in Sherlock’s desperation, if it feels as if he is searching for something, desperately, along the seam of John’s lips, something John can’t provide, John doesn’t do anything about it. And if it feels like a goodbye when it should be a hello, Sherlock refuses to admit it. The kiss is an eyes-wide-shut sort of ordeal, a desperate attempt to deny the outside world, shun it out and renounce it. As he draws in a sharp breath, stealing already limited supplies of oxygen from the miniscule space between them, John comes to understand the phrase about flames ‘licking’ at something. He could swear his mouth is being assaulted by licking flames, half gentle and half detrimental. When they break apart, he is surprised not to find blisters on his lips.

Heavy breaths, damp and coloured with the rusty smell of dried blood on Sherlock’s chapped lips, mingle in the narrow space between them, carbon dioxide and oxygen being exchange like trinkets, full of loudly screaming silence. Masters of subtext and double meanings. Masters of deceptive appearances.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks, out of breath. John looks at him, and the silence is as heavy as a raincloud. Men speaking in code. Men not speaking at all – kisses instead of words, that’s how they work now, Sherlock’s goodbyes traded for sighs and slide of hands, a message sent so not even the recipient can read it until it is time (until it is too late).

“Um...yeah..sure.”

They sip the tea. It’s absurd – a misplaced action taken from another story, stolen from a place with less mayhem. It’s ridiculous. It’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. It’s one last deceit, one last half-truth, a lie by omission. One last act of loyalty – or selfishness, depending on whom you ask.

Before John can utter a word, Sherlock places his emptied cup on the table. The clatter of china is too loud, too sharp. John flinches, as if the sound is a wake-up call. His eyes seek out Sherlock’s, looking for –what? Confirmation that there is no regret? A mirroring image of the sentiment he knows is showing in his own? Sherlock can only guess, but he rather wouldn’t. He can’t. Instead he decides to make his exit. They’re just actors, it’s all just play. John has his lines and Sherlock has his. The scene is done now. Time to retreat.

“I’m going to shower”, he says, “I would really like to get the grime of two weeks off my skin.” He doesn’t meet John’s eyes. He can’t – he is already listening to John’s laughter in his head. He can’t say goodbye to both at the same time.

“Um..yeah...’course.” John stutters, looking slightly shell-shocked. He sips some more tea. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Positive.” Sherlock replies, forcing his eyes up. It is a mistake. John’s eyes are like a silver screen, scenes of a future no longer possible running like childhood dreams and youth-related hopes across the blue irises. It takes every morsel of Sherlock’s self-control (oh, the irony again) to tear his gaze away.

“I’m just going to...um...sit down then.” John says, pointing half-heartedly in the general direction of his chair.

Sherlock leaves for the bathroom, leaving a confused John in his wake. He closes the bathroom door and turns on the shower, but doesn’t make a move to take off his clothes. Instead he counts down in his head, sliding down the wall until he is seated on hard, cold tiles. His head feels like that of an infant – too heavy for a too-weak neck to hold. After two minutes, he knows he is in the safe – the sleeping pill he used to douse John’s tea – the pill he’s been keeping stored for an experiment – should have started to take effect by now. Poisoning John's tea is becoming a recurring theme, apparently. He should be out cold. Sherlock attempts to stand up, but there is something holding him down. He would like to believe this to be just physical weakness, but he knows it's more. It's this place and its contents – _'Home'_ Sherlock admits – that keeps him anchored to the spot, unable to move, to leave. To do what's right.

Sherlock thinks he hears the pipes moan, and it sounds like ghosts and ghouls and creatures of myth Sherlock never believed in. It sounds as if there’s a pigeon stuck in the scratch-scarred wall – like a living thing hopelessly trapped between inanimate layers of plaster, and wood, and bricks, trashing in its confinement.

The sound is unsettling, eliciting a surge of anguish as Sherlock presses his palms to the sides of his head, covering his ears and trying to drown it out.

A pigeon in a wall. Moaning pipes. Ghouls and ghosts, indeed, Sherlock thinks, as he listens to the beating of his heart.

He remembers his return after chasing down Moriarty’s network, his _resurrection_ , coming back into John’s life with all the theatricality of a match being struck alight in the dark and dropped into a trail of gun powder. Like a ravenous flame, bright and blazing and magnificent, and so utterly, utterly devastating, notable only in its legacy of destruction. He remembers soft, fragile tendrils of actual happiness, _John’s_ actual happiness, being burnt to a crisp by the conflagration that was Sherlock Holmes back from the (un)dead. It was incomprehensible then, this idea of John happy without him, because it was _so obvious_ to anyone with even the slightest of morsels of wit that John was so much better off _with_ him.

He thought he was a trail of light returned to illuminate the gloom of John’s days, but he knows now that he was just a pyromaniac’s delight.

 

* * *

_It is a funny thing, perception. So easily skewed, distorted. Pliable and unreliable. If there had been more light, or if John had a chance to sneak a better look, (or if the stars aligned differently or the Earth spun East to West, or, or, or...), maybe he would have noticed Sherlock’s pupils, constricted despite the given circumstances of semi-gloom and physical flurry._

* * *

Sherlock can feel the first vicious grips of yearning tugging at him. It's beyond an urge. It's not a wish, or an itch. It’s hunger, primal and visceral.

 

* * *

_If it weren’t for two speeding heartbeats mixing and racing each other, maybe John would have noticed the increasingly erratic rhythm stealing into Sherlock’s._

 

* * *

His mind is craving, but that need falls short of the physical want Sherlock feels in his every cell, every tissue.

 

* * *

_If it weren’t for his own clouded, frenzied mind, maybe John would have noticed the slight slur in Sherlock’s speech._

 

* * *

Raw need tears at him, destructive and detrimental, disintegrating coherency like acetone dissolves varnish.

 

* * *

If, if, if...If there weren’t for so many “ _if_ ”-s, perhaps they could have simply enjoyed the warmth, without being singed by the flames. The “ _if_ ”-s are not to say John is to blame for missing the signs. No, they are simply indicators (like thermometers and litmus paper) which provide data on one small aspect of cosmic dynamics – the one dictating the lives of these two men.

 

* * *

Sherlock can feel his own body clawing at itself, dwindling down to a yearning husk, with his brain taunting him mercilessly, its chemistry viciously altered. He would give anything for a fix– ‘ _Anything. The Work? Anything. The thrill of the chase? Anything. That brilliant brain? Yes, anything! –_ sacrifice anyone – _Mycroft? Please. Lestrade? Anyone. Mrs. Hudson? Yes, anyone! Himself? Anyone – how is that still unclear?! Even John? YES, ANYONE! ...Oh.’_

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide with realisation, as he bolts up and out the door. He passes though the kitchen, catching the image of a sleeping John in his armchair, and rushes out of the flat. When he slams it shut, it sounds like a match being lit.

 

* * *

_One day the world will end. The end will start with fire._

 

* * *

The world ending with John isn’t what happens, isn’t what Sherlock gets. Instead, it is the worse of the two options that Sherlock has considered on that rooftop, which unravels – the end of his world with John.

 

* * *

All the “ _if_ ”-s, in their endless procession, are here to show that when Sherlock’s and John’s world turns into a desolate fire site, like so many events, so many meetings and beginnings and endings, like starts of so many fires, it is as a product of ordered chaos, a sequence of random pieces which could just as easily be a very systematic plan, put in motion so long ago that its purpose and course lie buried under layers of age.

So, when familiarity of what they are, the delicate balance of similarities and differences, their symbiosis, turn into ashes in wake of a toxic conflagration, it happens like all other beginnings/endings/meetings/goodbyes/creation/destruction - completely by accident, or maybe, completely by design.

Either way, these are the things they lose to the fire.

 

** End of Part One **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around! :) Hear that sound? The clinking of loose ends? The whistling noise that confusion makes? Yeah, no worries, those will be dealt with in Part 2, which I plan to start uploading this week :)
> 
> What else? I don't know...as I said, The Sign of Three is making me a bit barmy, so it's for the best that I just leave it on a "thank you" :)


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